


if the king's road was unpaved

by Gift_Giving



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Background Relationships, F/M, Gift Fic, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-03 23:23:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1759551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gift_Giving/pseuds/Gift_Giving
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Westeros is modernized, with modern values, and modern technology. Some things turn out for the better, but in the end, that only makes it worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. in happier times

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sunshine_and_Snow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunshine_and_Snow/gifts).



> Okay, so, this has a forewarning, and not what you're expecting. 
> 
> Basically, my friend Austin, for her birthday, gave me this prompt: "robb/sansa, modern au!" Now, I was going to do the normal thing and throw them into our world and make the rivalry, I don't know, business or something but then thought to myself, why not just modernize Westeros? This isn't our world, it's Westeros about a thousand years in the future that just happens to have a lot of the same technology, but a similar governmental system to the book/show, along with the same wars (but with guns and stuff). 
> 
> And then I realized that wait, with modern war (more the stuff than the guns), it would probably be easier to stop Rhaegar from getting Lyanna! Which means that Lyanna's alive. But then I needed a reason for Robert to marry Cersei, and also realized that if I mixed certain things acceptable in modern times with a few things the Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire universe is known for, you get the potential for a functional Robert/Cersei marriage! Which yeah, is all kinds of fucked up. 
> 
> Oh, and any mischaracterizations are fully explained in a way that make sense, and I'm saying this now because the Lannisters and the Starks get along and it's confusing. 
> 
> Also, I figured bastardry isn't as readily accepted now since divorce is a thing, so I just made Robb and Jon twins. Other ages got screwed around with too, for the sake of relationships.

As children, Sansa remembers listening to all Dad’s stories about King Robert’s Rebellion, about how they weren’t told with drunken pride but sober warning tones like he was trying to teach them a lesson more than entertain them. She never liked those much; she much preferred Mordane’s bedtime stories about the knights and their lady loves from years ago, about the chivalry that died out along with the fall of Westeros’ absolute monarchy. Robb, Jon, Theon, and eventually Arya used to turn both into games back before they were allowed to go into Winter Town by themselves and actually had the chance to make friends.

Now she’s fifteen, and the twins seventeen, with Arya fourteen and Theon nineteen and Bran and Rickon ten and six, respectively. It’s summer, but the end of summer, and autumn starts when Bran falls from a tree.

“It wasn’t that far of a fall,” Dr. Luwin says around midnight when everyone but Rickon, who’s with the nanny Osha, is gathered in the waiting room of Winter Town hospital. Sansa has her head on Robb’s shoulder, half asleep, and Arya’s clinging to her hand in a sign of sisterly love they don’t show each other all that often. “Brandon will live, but there’s nothing we could do about his legs. I’m sorry.”

Mom cries, and Dad holds her. Bran’s in the hospital for a week, and when he’s finally released, he’s in a wheelchair and won’t talk to anyone, not even Jon. “We should look for a psychologist, Ned,” Sansa hears Mom say one night as she’s walking past her parents’ room. “This isn’t healthy.”

 _A psychologist_. The only person in the family who gets any type of psychiatric help is Theon, but they weren’t able to adopt him until he was eight, which makes eight years with his father, so that’s only to be expected. Dad answers, “I know. But with Robert coming, how are we even going to find the time to look?”

Normally, Sansa would be ecstatic to find out that the King is coming, because that means his family is coming. which means Myrcella and more importantly Joffrey (though unfortunately not Gendry, the oldest, because he’s doing an internship in King’s Landing), but not right now. Will Bran be talking by then? For the past few years, she’s spent a lot of her time in Winter Town with Jeyne, who’s her best friend, and other girls and boys who come along with her, or on Video Chat with Margie or Cellie. It hasn’t left a long of time to be around family, and it isn’t until he fell that she noticed how used to the endless noise she was. Even just one of them is enough to make a difference.

From inside her parents’ room comes the sound of footsteps nearing the door. She flees down the hallway as quiet as she can.

 

 

This isn’t the Middle Ages, and Dad’s the King’s best friend, so there’s no fanfare when the royal family flies in. Only Arya and Sansa are outside with their parents, putting aside their differences because it’s a competition for who can hug Cellie first. Normally they would be all over Gendry too, but he isn’t here, which really sucks. If one of the older brothers has to be missing, why does it have to be the awesome one? Robb’s with _his_ brothers inside, getting his ass kicked by Jon in _Dance of Dragons_ while Bran tries to throw in unhelpful hints to both of them and Theon struggles to get a wiggling Rickon’s shirt buttoned correctly.

They don’t pause the game until they hear Jaime Lannister laugh. “Your version of a royal greeting has gone down hill in the past few years, boys,” he says, and Rickon’s off Theon’s lap in a moment, running over with a cry of “Uncle Jaime!” to cling onto the man’s leg. “Oh, gods, you’re getting tall.”

“He’s six, what do you expect?” his sister says from behind him before any of the Stark siblings can do anything. “Tommen’s going to in here in a moment. He’s been asking about the five of you since the plane took off.”

Tommen Baratheon is a little younger than Bran, and when all of them were young, Robb, Jon, and Theon were always the “cool” older brothers stuck on babysitting duties during the holidays. King’s Landing and Winterfell are about an hour plane ride apart, nine by car, but their families spent more time together than the three of them spent with Pyp and Grenn in Winter Town growing up.

“Did you guys seriously _fly_?” Theon says. “Is Cellie all right?”

“Temporarily traumatized,” Aunt Cersei answers, because her daughter hates flying as much as he does, “but Sansa and Arya will force her for a walk around the glass gardens and she’ll forget all about it. Thank the gods for heating - it’s freezing outside.”

Right on cue, Tommen comes in, unfortunately followed by Joff, and Bran quickly rolls over to the youngest Baratheon, striking up a conversation about some card game based on a cartoon all the kids have been talking about recently. “Well, winter is coming,” Robb says with a shrug, repeating Dad’s favorite words. It’s not all that cold to him, but they already have a snowstorm moving down from the north; Aunt Lyanna’s visiting Uncle Benjen and got stuck because of a blizzard before she could make it down. “Much colder up here than King’s Landing. Do you want something to drink? We have tea and coffee in the kitchen.”

“Mom, Dad’s talking to Uncle Ned about university again,” Joffrey says, scowling, and okay, that’s just about the one thing they can _all_ agree on, because for some reason Uncle Robert’s dead set on all the boys going to the same school together even though Joffrey wants to stay in King’s Landing like Gen did, Robb wants to stay in Winter Town, Jon wants to go to Castle Black with Pyp and Grenn, and Theon’s already enrolled in art school. “Can you make them stop?”

Both Lannister twins sigh. “We’ll stop the conversation at dinner,” Uncle Jaime promises. “Just leave it to me.”

“Why is Dad talking about something like college anyway?” Joffrey says, mouth still twisted down. “Granddad just died. Shouldn’t he be talking about funeral arrangements?”

Jon Arryn wasn’t actually Joffrey’s granddad. He wasn’t the Starks’ either, just the like Baratheons aren’t really their cousins, but what they call each other got muddled somewhere down the line. And, okay, another point goes to the dick who hits on Sansa too often. But when has Uncle Robert ever had his priorities straight? It’s one of his best redeeming qualities.

“Yeah, do you have any idea where it’s going to be?” Robb asks, because they’ve got a date (five days from now), but not the location. “Our parents haven’t said anything yet.”

Then _Tommen_ , surprisingly, not his mom, or uncle, or brother, is the one to answer, “Back home, with his son and Grandma who’s your aunt.”

Everyone but Rickon, who’s babbling to Uncle Jaime about baseball, goes silent. Then Jon says, “No,” and sounds as horrified as all the other kids look.

“It was where he was born,” Aunt Cersei says, raising one eyebrow. “Where else did you expect? Here? King’s Landing?”

While the Baratheons (plus Jaime) and the other Starks are cool enough, Lysa Tully Arryn is someone Robb and his siblings spent most of their childhood trying to avoid. The media always has a field day over her, but even _they_ don’t know how weird she really is. The one time Grandpa (as in her father, not her husband, and that’s just even more confusing) tried to send her to professional help, apparently, she threatened to run away from home and elope with Petyr Baelish. Mom says she’s sick, and they should be nicer about her. Robb just thinks they have the right to not want to be hanging around someone who breastfeeds her seven-year-old son.

Before he can suggest all the kids stay here, Mom enters, cheeks pink from the cold. “Ned should be dragging Robert back inside any minute now,” she says, and the girls suddenly come tumbling in after her. “Arya, you’re tracking mud! Sorry, I’m taking it the boys haven’t told you the new room situation?”

Oh, oh shit, Robb completely blanked and from his brothers’ faces, they had to. The room setup for the royal family visits have been the same for years, but when Bran fell, the whole house had to be rearranged so his bedroom could be downstairs. “No, they haven’t,” Uncle Jaime says. “I decided to wait and see how long it would take before they realized it.”

Mom rolls her eyes. “ _Boys_ ,” she says in that voice that means she’s at least mildly irritated, but they aren’t in danger of getting in trouble. “All right, so Jaime’s room is the same, as well as Joff and Gen’s. Cersei, you and Robert are now in the room Myrcella and Tommen used to use. And Cel -”

“Cellie, you’re staying in our room!” Sansa cuts in. “And you get to choose, cot, with Arya, or with me.”

“Sorry, Sans, but I’m going with Arya for this,” Cellie answers, but she’s smiling. “You kick your sleep. Oh, guys, who’s playing and who’s winning?”

As Jon answers, “Robb and I. He’s losing,”

“Go back to what you were doing,” Mom says. “I’m going to help everyone with their things. Maybe Joff can go against Theon when you two are done.”

Even though this sounds like just a suggestion, Mom’s real message is clear enough - _play nice_. Yeah, Robb will play nice as long as Joff and Sansa don’t make oogly eyes at each other from across the living room all night.

Then, for some reason, his sisters exchange a look that can only be described as evil before they come rushing over to the couch, Myrcella not far behind (and Joffrey takes a seat next to Rickon, who’s returned to his place next to Theon on the other sofa). Next thing Robb knows, Sansa’s hopping over the armrest, squishing herself between that and his body, which forces his elbow against his side. “Hey, this is unfair!” he says right as Jon unpauses the game like a total dick and he’s forced to start playing. “You’re restricting my arm movement!”

“Whoever loses has to drive us to the mall,” Arya says, and repeats Sansa’s motion, but next to Jon, and Cellie comes to sit between them. A couch that’s supposed to fit three is suddenly fitting five. “So, Robb, hurry up and lose. See, we made it fair.”

This is what the girls call fair? Sansa’s a solid nine inches taller their sister, and Myrcella is leaning all her weight on Robb, not Jon. Fucking cheaters. Mom, Aunt Cersei, and Uncle Jaime all leave, and he hears the front door open, which means Dad and Robert are coming back inside. It’s no surprise five minutes later when Robb loses _spectacularly_.

Then he passes his controller off to Theon, and his brother passes his off to Joffrey. The girls all get up to run off to the car, and it’s no surprise, either, when Jon comes along for the ride.

 

 

Gendry makes it up the day before they all leave for the Eyrie, Aunt Lyanna the day before, and Jon wonders if their cousins have figured out that their parents have some weird open marriage relationship going on yet. Even though Gen’s eighteen and Joffrey’s seventeen, he’s guessing either all four of them are too oblivious, or purposely ignoring it. Because really, Uncle Robert and Aunt Lyanna are so far from subtle it’s not even funny.  

Since it’s past ten, Bran, Rickon, and Tommen are all asleep, but the adults are gods’ know where and everyone else is crashed out in the living room under a badly made blanket fort, _Macomber_ playing on TV. “Now what I really don’t get about Granddad’s place,” Gen’s saying as they all ignore the movie, “is that it seems perpetually stuck in the Two Hundreds. Are they ever going to get a Sunspear?”

“ _We_ don’t have a Sunspear,” Robb points out, and Gen shrugs. Sunspear is a cafe found everywhere but the North, which sucks because even Jon will admit it has the best coffee. “And I don’t know. I think that was Granddad that kept it like that, though, for once, not Aunt Lysa. If Aunt Lysa had her way, everything would be safety padded so Robin never got so much as a papercut.”

Arya’s whole body shutters. “Why couldn’t the funeral be in King’s Landing?” she says. “He has spent most of his time there in the past, what, nineteen years?”

With a shrug, Joffrey says, “Grandma insisted. I heard Mom asking Dad if she thought it was weird his will didn’t mention burial rights,” and even though Jon, Robb, and Theon say they hate the other boy, they really don’t. They definitely don’t get along, but as kids they were all fine with each other - then Joff had to go and flirt with Sansa, who flirted back, and ever since then, none of them have liked him as much, so he hasn’t liked them as much. Dad says they’re just being overprotective, but Jon’s pretty sure his little sister could do better. And by better he means find literal perfection and date that.

Next to him, Sansa suddenly drops from leaning on her elbows to her stomach, sighing loudly, and rolls over, which makes her flop half on top of Robb. “I don’t care _where_ he’s buried,” she says, which is actually total bullshit and they all know it, because she bitched to them just yesterday about having to put up with their aunt, who calls her passive aggressively Little Cat. “I just can’t believe he’s gone. Is it true your dad’s going to ask our dad to become the new Hand?”

When Cellie shrugs, the movement is exactly the same as the way her brother does it. And people say they’re nothing alike. “Probably,” she answers. “Mom and Dad totally think we haven’t noticed, but like every member of the council is basically vying for the position, so he’s going to want someone he can trust, you know? It’s going to be weird without Granddad around. He was tell me embarrassing Dad and Uncle Ned stories the night before the fever hit.”

According to the news, and of course everyone once they got here, the fever hit so fast they couldn’t even get him to the hospital. Jon and his siblings didn’t get to see Granddad as consistently as their cousins, but they still loved him just like anyone loves their grandfather (unless their grandfather is a bad person, but that’s a different matter altogether). Now Jon’s torn between missing him a lot, completely not believing that he’s dead, and not wanting Uncle Robert to take Dad away. He belongs here, not with all the corrupt assholes in King’s Landing, and then Mom will be stuck taking care of the North’s affairs alone, since Robb’s not eighteen yet (being older by two minutes makes him heir, technically). It just doesn’t sound like a good situation.

If that happens, Jon’ll apply for University of Winterfell like his brother, and even though he wanted to go to Castle Black, it won’t be that terrible. Sticking around with this twin close to the rest of his family? Not that bad of a way to spend his higher education years. “Who will be Hand if Dad says no?” Bran asks.

“Uncle Jaime, maybe,” Gendry says, “though I don’t know how’d work, him being a member of the Kingsguard and all. They’d never ask Mom’s dad. Hand of the King on top of Lord of Casterly Rock, head of the National Bank, and Warden of Westerlands? That’s almost as many titles as Daenerys Targeryen.”

As they all get older, Jon’s noticed their cousins like Tywin Lannister less and less the more they learn about him. The real tipping point was finding out about the order to kill the Targaryen children after the Rebellion, something omitted from high school textbook but still taught in college. Daenerys Targeryen, the last of the family everyone’s assuming since no one’s gotten a word about Viserys in about a year, married some Dothraki king no one cares about, became a widow, and apparently has been going around Essos ever since looking for a hired army to come win back Westeros. And, okay, Jon doesn’t agree with the ultimate end of the Rebellion, and he and Robb have discussed like a thousand different ways that could’ve gone down differently, but he’s also relatively sure no one here wants another Targaryen in charge. Pretty much every adult he knows has horror stories about Uncle Jaime calling up his dad, who was doing an interview on live TV, to tell him to get a bomb squad to King’s Landing and basically disarm an entire city before it could blow up.

In the end, Tywin Lannister wasn’t fast enough, and they still lost a large portion of Flea Bottom. Gendry’s internship that he missed the majority of his family’s visit this time was helping a professor fix the infrastructure because it’s been nearly twenty years and the area’s still compromised by wildfire bomb damage. Though Daenerys has been treated like something of a joke, basically anyone who pays attention knows she’d never actually pull anything off.

“Well, I guess if Dad says yes, it’s more of an excuse to go down to King’s Landing to go see you guys,” Sansa says as Arya reaches for the remote to turn off the TV. Past the first half hour, none of them paid any attention to the movie. “Robb, can I go in your car tomorrow?”

Originally they were going to fly, but the joint efforts of a whining Myrcella and a slightly less whining Theon coupled with how difficult it would be to fit Bran on a plane that packed eventually changed everyone’s mind, so they’re doing an awesome five hour drive instead. “Sure,” Robb says. “I’m already taking Jon and Theon, so there’s room for one more.”

Before Sansa can go to inevitably ask for him to drive Joffrey, or Arya can ask to go herself, Cellie says, “I’m fine with squishing in the middle seat,” and Jon seriously doesn’t understand how his twin’s so oblivious to how much that girl likes him. And this coming from him, who doesn’t even understand other guys, let alone women. Their youngest sister frowns, but doesn’t comment.

“Well, as long as your parents are okay with it,” Robb says, and rolls over, which drags Sansa with him, and her feet suddenly dig into Jon’s side. He follows Arya’s example and doesn’t mention it.

“We’re already in pajamas,” Sansa says, “and I’m way too tired to move. Who’s up to having a childish sleepover?”

Even though they’re all definitely too old for this, not even Joff argues with it, and Gendry and Theon, who’re closest to the couches, start passing pillows around. “Sansa, I know you’re comfortable,” Theon says as Jon adjusts his body so he’s lying on his side, “but at least move your hair out of my face so I can breathe, okay?”

“Oh, sorry.”

She rearranges herself, which also gets her feet out of the way, and Arya curls up so her back’s against Jon’s arm and she’s facing Myrcella, whose leg’s over the back of Theon’s knees. Joffrey and Gendry are out of sight, but considering how close together everyone is, Jon’s sure they’re as smushed as the rest of them. The eight person goodnight chorus is five minutes long.

Gods, he thinks as he’s drifting off to sleep, they better wake up before anyone else because the last thing any of them need is a picture of them as teenagers cuddling under a blanket fort somewhere in their parents’ bedrooms.

 

 

Jon Arryn might never have been his biological father, but to Ned, the man was certainly his dad. Having him gone is a painful ache somewhere behind his ribcage, and though it’s Robert or his wife he wants most to be with right now, he doesn’t mind that Jaime is the one keeping his company as they hide away from the view of cameras. As the royal family, Robert, Cersei, and Gendry as their heir are forced to put on the brave face for everyone else, and Cat is off with Lysa, playing the part of the sympathetic sister, with Lyanna helping because she’s not cruel enough to leave his wife alone.

“You know, the thing about the Kingsguard is that you’re supposed to protect people,” Jaime tells him, taking a seat on the opposite couch in the living room area of the guest wing they’re occupying. The man may be a Lannister, but he’s not _technically_ the royal family, so he’s pushed off to the side with the Starks. “I’ve stopped four attempts on Jon’s life. Seems strange that something as ordinary as a fever is what got him.”

“When Cat and I heard, we barely believed it,” Ned answers. “Robert gave me a call at about two in the morning. I always assumed he’d die of old age. Someone has to.”

What kicked started the Rebellion, in the eyes of everyone but Robert, wasn’t really the failed kidnapping of Lyanna, but the torture and murder of Ned’s real father and brother. The Internet wasn’t as popular back then, information didn’t travel as quickly, and the Targaryens covered up why Rhaegar was mysteriously injured easily enough, and Brandon and Rickard Stark paid the price for trying to speak out. Even the royal family couldn’t hide the fallout from the media.

After it was over, and Robert made King with Cersei as his Queen, he asked Jon to be his Hand. Now Jon’s gone, and Robert’s asking Ned. “Well, it looks like you’ll be the one I’m protecting next, maybe,” Jaime says. “Have you thought of what you’re going to - what’s wrong?”

Ned turns, and Cat and Lyanna are standing behind him, neither the children nor Lysa in sight. “We have to talk,” his wife says, mouth in a thin line. “Now. In a room with a door that shuts so the kids don’t hear.”

Though confused, he follows the women to his bedroom, Jaime close at his heels, and once the door is closed tight behind them, the other man asks, “What can possibly be so urgent you aren’t waiting for at least my sister?”

“Maybe you should sit down, Ned,” Lyanna answers, ushering him backwards so he’s forced to sit on the bed. “Cat, she’s _your_ sister.”

This really isn’t boding well so far, and he hasn’t seen his wife look so shaken since Jon came down with pneumonia at seven. And Lyanna - well, at least she looks put together. “According to Lysa,” she says after a moment, folding her hands in front of her, “Jon’s death wasn’t natural. It was poison. That’s why she refused to have him buried in King’s Landing. He drank a glass of wine with dinner after talking to Myrcella and almost immediately afterwards came down a fever. She said she thought nothing of it until after he died the next morning, but she saw someone leave their suite in the Red Keep, though she didn’t see who it was. Lysa’s always been paranoid and maybe this is just a reaction to quickly Jon died, I don’t know, but I’ve never known her to be paranoid of something happening to him.”

“Jon was away from his suite the whole day before died,” Jaime says, “so servants would have to let themselves in and out without knocking. Has she brought this to Robert? Will she bring this to Robert? I mean, the King is here, Barristan Selmy is here, _I’m_ here. There are a lot of people she could bring this to.”

“That’s what I said,” Lyanna tells them, “but she says she thinks it might’ve been someone on the Council, that Jon had been saying strange things the past few weeks about people being particularly upset about something having to do with the royal family, though he never specified. Lysa also said he might have mumbled something about...blonde hair.”

Though the movement’s slight, Ned watches as Cat’s shoulders tense, and her eyes focus downward to the stone floor. Everyone is very good at hiding it, but Lyanna is his sister, and Robert the boy he grew up with; he knows that really the only reason the King and Queen work as a healthily married couple is that they aren’t actually _with_ each other. And he knows as well as his friend that the only trueborn Baratheon is Gen. Lysa never knew, so for her to say Jon was mumbling about “blonde hair” is possibly touching on something more serious than she realizes.

When Jaime he says, “He could mean other blondes,” he sounds unconvinced. “It makes sense for the kids to have Cersei’s hair color. She’s their mother.”

While that’s true, all it takes is one person asking too many questions, or making their inquiry public. “When are we going to tell Robert and Cersei about this?” Ned says. “Or were the two of you planning not to tell them at all?”

“It’s his wife and kids, Ned,” Lyanna says. “He’ll rip apart the Council trying to find out who started the rumor. I love him, but even I admit that will only make things worse. Besides, we don’t even know if it’s true.”

“I’m not on the Council, but I interact with everyone,” Jaime says, though he seems less steady than usual, and for a perfectly understandable reason. Ned’s worried enough the kids’ uncle, if this is true. He can only imagine what it’s like as the father. “I can look into it. If you aren’t going to mention it to Robert, don’t say anything to Cersei either. Not until we can definitely say something is going on.”

Suddenly everyone’s looking at him and, as Warden of the North, he knows politics and he knows them well. The way the Hand of the King can look for a threat is different from the way a member of the Kingsguard will, but he’s already fought one war. He’s not fighting another because someone decides to start asking too many questions about their King’s sex life. “I’ll give Robert my answer in the morning,” he says, glancing up at his wife. “I’m sure the children will forgive me eventually.”

Cat reaches over and takes his hand, though she stays standing, Lyanna places a hand against his arm, and he realizes they must look like the portrait of that stereotypical Northern coldness. Jaime says something so quiet Ned doesn’t quite catch it, and practically runs away. For the children and for Jon, he tells himself, but a feeling of dread settles low in his stomach anyway.

 

 

Even though they do, technically, have friends outside of each other, the Starks stick it close to a family. As someone who lived for the first eight years of his life getting hit around by his dad, a lord of the one the Great Houses, before he was adopted, Theon knows this is weird. But he wakes up half his mornings with someone pouncing on his bed telling him breakfast is ready so he better get up, which means he’s really not complaining.

Especially now, because Ned’s been gone for a week, and sure, Pyp and Grenn are good enough guys to mope with, but no one really understands why it sucks other than family. “Got my first ‘sorry about your dad’ text,” Robb says, taking a seat next to him and reaching over to take some pancakes off the plate in the center of the table. While a lot of other Great Houses, including the Greyjoys, have servants, the Starks just sort of don’t. They had a nanny when they were younger and that’s about it, so if there’s a cooked breakfast in the mornings, it always means Cat, or sometimes Osha, is the one who made it (and if it tastes terrible, it means Sansa tried to help). “Loras sent it to me at, get this, _eight in the morning_.”

As someone who regularly wakes up at ten, Theon thinks eight in the morning sounds like a sin. And Loras usually sleeps later than he does. “That’s just cruel,” he says, and Jon enters, hair wet from a shower and carrying two mugs of coffee. “How about you? Heard anything yet?”

“Well, any Loras text is to the three of us, if that counts,” he answers, taking a seat next to a twin and passing off one of the mugs. Robb mumbles a thanks, and Jon takes pancakes off his brother’s plate, which forces him to get his more of the one in the middle again. “Don’t think the guys have heard yet, because I haven’t gotten anything for them.”

“‘Sorry about your dad’ just sounds wrong,” Robb adds. “Couldn’t he have worded it differently? This is Loras, he’s usually so eloquent it’s scary.”

Yeah, it really does sound like an insincere death or sickness condolences text, and Theon _really_ doesn’t want to think about Ned dying. Not after that conversation at Aunt Lysa that he and his brothers absolutely did not under any circumstances accidently eavesdrop on. “It’s what, ten thirty? He’s probably not fully awake yet,” he says. “The boy does need his beauty sleep.”

Robb snorts into his coffee as he tries to laugh with his mouth closed but Jon, ever the nicer one, says, “That was mean,” which also sounds pretty insincere. “Is it seriously only ten thirty? Grenn might be awake, but Pyp definitely won’t be.”

“I sort of doubt Grenn had the Saturday Morning News on anyway,” Robb says. “What people our age, outside of us who have a reason to care, actually watch Saturday Morning News?”

He’s got a point. Most of the good news is on at night, and though Ned’s appearance in King’s Landing was noted this morning, he won’t officially be granted the title of Hand of the King until about dinner time today. Theon wonders if the newscasters will comment on the fact that his family isn’t there for the ceremony, because he’s noticed by now that the media down south just loves to make such a big deal over how “weird” the Stark family is. Fucking Northern stereotype. “I doubt we’ll be getting a text from Ren until later,” he says. “And _that_ text will include a bunch of pictures. Remembers the days before he had a camera phone?”

The door to the dining room clicks open, and Sansa enters with Jeyne, who apparently has a thing for him but is a) way too young and b) looks too much like Arya for him to ever do anything with. And also isn’t Ros. “What’re you talking about?” his sister says, pulling up a seat next to him. “I heard something about camera phones.”

“We’re talking about Ren’s picture obsession,” Theon answers.

With a slight shake of her head, Jeyne says, “I’ll literally never get over that you guys talk to Lord Renly like it’s no big deal.”

“His boyfriend’s cooler,” Robb tells her (which is true), but gets overlapped by Sansa saying, “Margie’s not much better. Look at what I got.”

Since he’s right next to her, Theon gets her phone first and it takes him a moment to get register that what he’s seeing _isn’t_ taken off a computer screen. “That bitch,” he says. “Guys, the Tyrells are in King’s Landing for the ceremony. That’s why Loras texted you so early.”

“What?” his brother says, grabbing the phone out of his hand. “No way. How come they got to go and we didn’t?”

“Because our parents care about school more than Lady Olenna does and Lord Mace is a pushover,” Jon says. “If you zoom in, you can see Tommen and Myrcella playing with Ser Pounce in the corner. So much for royal breakfast etiquette.”

Sansa laughs and says, “Like anyone cares about royal _breakfast_. Now give my phone back so I can answer her. She’s probably bored out of her mind. Loras disappeared with Renly and Willas already found his way into the library. Who goes to Red Keep for the library?”

“A lot of people, Sans,” Robb says, and poor Jeyne just looks confused as fuck. “It’s the biggest library in Westeros.”

Though Theon can see the draw and all, he’s absolutely with Sansa on this one. He likes King’s Landing because it’s warm, and the beach is awesome. The sea bordering the North’s coastline is too cold even during the summer to go swimming, and reminds him too much of the Iron Islands. “So who wants to go to a movie before Bran and Rickon get home?” he asks. “Because waiting around for texts and the evening news sounds even more boring than formal royal breakfast.”

“ _Watchers on the Wall_ just came out,” Jon says, and oh, of course he’d want to go see something that takes place as far north as north can go. But, whatever, the action in it is supposed to be best of the year. “Where’s Arya? She said she wanted to see it.”

“Talking to Gen,” Sansa answers. “Did you not notice the distinct lack of Prince Gendry in the picture? Hold on, I’ll go get her. Someone look up movie times. Jeyne, do you want to come?”

Really, the only problem with being closest to each other is that sometimes other people get shoved in as an afterthought. And Theon’s just about the least considerate person in the household, so him acknowledging it as a problem means that it’s a noticeable one. Jeyne looks taken aback, like she hadn’t expected to invited even though she’s right here, before she agrees. By the time they’re in the movie theater an hour later, they’re all pretending they aren’t obsessively checking their phones.

 

 

Though Cersei expected the Stark children to be in King’s Landing more often now that they’re father was made hand, she hadn’t anticipated _how_ often. But none of her own kids are complaining, so of course she isn’t, and after watching Joffrey and Sansa more closely, she wonders how long it will be before she and Cat are planning a wedding (because, in complete honesty, it’s not as though they’ll _ever_ let Robert and Ned get their hands on that opportunity).

“Mom, I’m bringing Sansa out for a walk around the city,” Joff says during Ned’s third month here while Robb, who drove his sister down because it’s not as though the boy ever denies his sister anything, is off somewhere with his dad. “We’ll have Jory and Ser Clegane with us.”

Sansa’s a little behind him, wearing a white and grey plaid shirt tucked inside a lovely blue skirt. She dresses much nicer than her younger sister, though she could do with some brighter colors. Perhaps get some yellow in there, the only similarity between House Baratheon and House Lannister. “Be back by dinner, you two,” Cersei says, as dinner is always at the same time every night unless there are guests, and Joff takes his medication within an hour afterwards. “And stay safe. Don’t go into Flea Bottom.”

“I’m not _Cellie_ ,” her son says, exasperated. “We’re not going shopping.”

Oh, that’s what he thinks, but all it takes is for Sansa to smile and he’ll do whatever she wants. No wonder the boys hate him so much. “By dinner,” Cersei repeats. “Little dove, keep an eye on the time. We both know my son won’t.”

And, perfectly chipper as usual, her niece answers, “Of course, Aunt Cersei,” and slips her hand in Joffrey’s. As they leave, she hears her say, “I haven’t been to the park in _ages_ ,” which at least they are, in fact, staying very far away from Flea Bottom.

“He originally asked me to go,” Jaime suddenly says, and when she turns, she finds him leaning against the East Wing doorway, “but the last thing I want to do is see Joff and Sansa’s romantic stroll around the Botanical Gardens.”

“To be fair, it is nicer than Lion’s Park back home,” she says, thinking of all the nights they spent as teenagers walking around the Golden Lake. Majestic creatures or not, Casterly Rock’s names for its famous locations really should have to do with more than the Lannister sigil. The only real exception is Miner’s Peak, and even that has to do with gold.

With a half-smile, her brother says, “Regardless, do you think he really wanted his uncle as chaperone? At least he isn’t Gen, fighting to go around with security.”

“Gen has too much of his father in him sometimes.” Though more compassionate and less rash than Robert to be certain, her oldest son views independence to mean the allowance of going around the city without guards at his back. She’s pretty sure that’s just an attempt to impress his friends, since the Starks rarely have security when in the North, but there’s a difference between being a lord and being the heir to the Iron Throne. “Can you believe he’s eighteen already? No one ever said kids grow up that fast.”

Jaime moves closer, putting an arm around her shoulders. “They’re going to be fine, Cersei,” he says, predicting what she’s thinking as he always does. “Gendry will be King one day, Joffrey will marry Sansa, Cellie will go through her princess rebellious stage where she decides dresses are the invention of the Seven Hells, and Tommen will get more kittens. As long as I’m around, nothing bad is going to happen to them.”

This isn’t the first time her brother’s said this, but it is the first time it’s felt like a lie.

She doesn’t like it.

 

 

Last winter didn’t last very long, and ended when he and Robb were about eight. Now it’s the first snowfall of autumn, heavier than summer snows but lighter than winter’s, and Jon just wants to sleep. “Don’t you want to build a snowman?” he hears Rickon to his twin, who sleeps on the bottom bunch, at Too Early O’Clock in the Morning.

Robb groans, followed by the rustles covers, and when he answers, “Go away, Rickon,” his voice comes out muffled. Oh gods, he pulled the blankets over his head. Maybe that midnight snowball fight of theirs was a bad idea.

“It doesn’t have to be a snowman.”

Then comes the heavy footfall of someone running into their room, followed by the yanking open of curtain, which lets in the blinding light of sunshine bouncing off snow. Robb groans again, louder this time, and Jon peeks out from under his own covers. Both Arya, who’s the one who opened the shades, and Rickon are fully dressed for a day outside, including fluffy coats, thick jeans, mittens, and hats pulled over their ears.

“We’re up, we’re up,” his twin says, and rolls out of bed with a quiet thud. “Jon, I’m making decisions for you. You’re up.”

If Rickon weren’t right there, he’d curse his brother out for abusing authority, but Jon’s powerless to stop the Stark puppy dog eyes. It doesn’t help that Ghost and Grey Wind have joined in, awake now too with their tails wagging in sync. Finding the direwolf litter in the godswood last year was so cool, and even if there were only six, Theon didn't want one anyway. He's satisfied with his cat. “You’re evil, all of you,” he says, but climbs out of the top bunk anyway, purposely not looking at the clock. “Someone go bother Theon. If we can’t enjoy a snow day lie-in, then neither can he.”

Before he can call first shower, Robb’s already taken off towards their bathroom with a towel and some clothes. Though they have about five spare rooms, he and his twin have shared a bedroom since they were born, mostly as an excuse to have bunkbeds. “Theon’s still out with that girl,” Arya says, scrunching up her nose. “Ros or whatever her name is that, what that it? The one he ‘doesn’t like.’”

Sansa was so disappointed when she found out their brother has a not-girlfriend, because that meant he couldn’t date Jeyne, even though that would be kind of creepy (the girl looked like Arya and was three years younger than him, after all). From the bathroom, Robb shouts, “What about Sansa!”

“Getting Bran ready!” Arya answers. Then, quieter, she adds, “Mom’s out, so Osha’s the one making breakfast. Rickon convinced her to do it so Sansa wouldn’t.” And the six-year-old just looks so proud of himself for that. Jon knew they trained him well. “We’ll be outside, but we demand you get out the moment you’re ready because I’m not making a snowman without you.”

“We’re not making a snowman!”

“Yes, you totally are, Robb!”

That midnight snowball fight was such a bad idea, Jon thinks again. Basically the last thing either of them wants to deal with is more snow, but knowing their luck, they’re about to not only be roped into making a snowman, but another fight - which is more of a war, with all of them put together, though they’ll have to be careful with Bran. At least Theon won’t be here. He’s got the best aim out of any of them, though Robb and Jon are nothing to frown at, either. Arya’s deadly as long as she’s got the time to set herself up.

The shower turns on, which means Robb’s ducked out of the conversation. “Grab a carrot before you leave,” Jon says. “I’m not risking Osha’s wrath for stealing from the kitchen again.”

Rickon’s already bolted out the door, off to venture into the outside world, but Arya stays and squints at him. “When’s the last time you stole from the kitchen?”

Really, they don’t have maids, so it doesn’t technically count as _stealing_ , but everyone also hates food shopping, so it kind of does. And whoever finishes the milk is the one forced to go to the supermarket. “Two weeks ago?” he says, counting back in his head. “I don’t know, Robb and I went after a couple slices of Bran’s birthday cake. Osha wasn’t happy. Now get outside so you don’t overheat.”

“If you two aren’t down in twenty minutes max, I swear I’ll turn you into twinsicles,” she threatens in typical Arya fashions, but she’s gone a moment later anyway. And despite the running water, apparently Robb heard, because he suddenly laughs loud enough for the door not to muffle it.

After sighing much longer, and much more dramatically, than necessary, Jon shouts for his brother to hurry up. “Someone’s already used all the hot water!” Robb answers, and Jon’s officially given up on today already.

 

 

The children are here again, which is always a good way to spend a long weekend - or, two of his kids are, anyway. Apparently Robb managed to tell Sansa no for once, but Jon fell prey to her pout instead because he’s the one brought her along. “It’s been a while since Gen and I hung out,” is his son’s excuse, and Ned pretends to believe him.

Later, once Jon’s left with Gendry and Myrcella to go into town, Ned asks Sansa, “So why isn’t Robb here, exactly?”

She looks up from the other side of his desk, where she’s fiddling with her phone. Until Joffrey comes by to get her for dinner, which was supposed to be a group thing but last minute Gen decided to change his plans (where he _randomly_ decided to show Jon his internship project, and Myrcella _randomly_ decided she wanted to come along, and they dragged away his son before he could protest, which forces Joffrey and Sansa to eat out alone - Ned’s convinced it was a set up), she’s in his office with him. “It’s Uncle Edmure’s wedding, remember?” she answers. “He’s easier to guilt trip than Jon and Theon’s got that final project due for school. You should’ve heard her - ‘Robb, when is the last thing we’re done something mother and son? Oh, don’t mind me, I coincidently ironed your nice shirt today. But Arya has practice that day!’ Jon totally could’ve stepped in at any time but just, like, let him deal with the abuse, and you weren’t there to tell her to let up. It was hilarious.”

Oh, poor Robb. But, then again, does anyone really ever want to deal with Walder Frey alone? Ned’s never met Edmure’s bride-to-be, but he’s known that man since he was about ten, so she must really be something for him to risk marrying into that family. “What’s that girl’s name again?”

“Dad!”

“What?”

Sansa just sighs, long and drawn out the way Lyanna does. “Roslin,” she says. “Apparently her nickname’s Ros, but we don’t call her that in the house because it gets too confusing. Theon’s still not willing to admit he likes the girl, by the way.”

Now _that_ Ros Ned has met, and his last conversation with his wife the night before began with her informing him that her subtle attempts to get their son to ask the girl out were still in vain. Theon is only slightly less clueless than the twins, though he likes to pretend otherwise. “That’s tonight, isn’t it?” he asks, and his daughter nods. “Do your brother a favor and text him when you think the ceremony might be done. The only people there his age will be Freys and Ramsay Bolton’s son.”

Scrunching up her nose in clear distaste, she says, “The psycho one?” and before Ned can tell her not to call him that, there’s a knock at the door. Her expression turns immediately into a grin, and she practically flies to the entrance, yanking open at the handle. “You’re late, you know.”

As expected, it’s Joffrey. He’s a good kid, really, and Ned would prefer his daughter to almost-date someone without schizophrenia, but he’s got a handle on it and has for years. The Lannisters have a history of mental illness on both sides of their family, and Cersei’s bipolar; at least one of their kids was bound to be born with _something_.

“I know, I know,” the boy answers, before peaking inside and waving. “Hi, Uncle Ned.”

“Hi, Joffrey,” Ned says, and goes back to his computer where he’s been sifting through suspicious documents. During his six months here, he’s definitely noticed that something feels off, but he hasn’t found actual evidence enough to worry Robert and Cersei yet. Neither has Jaime. “Be safe, you two - oh, and don’t go out of your way, but if you see Baelish on your way out, tell him to come here.”

Sansa reaches over to take Joffrey’s hand, something Ned wishes he hadn’t seen because fathers are programmed to worry, and asks, “Is your phone still having trouble charging?”

For the past week it’s been acting up, but it’s about two years old now, and he knows he should have gotten a new one a couple of weeks ago. This is sheer carelessness on his part. “Officially stopped this morning,” he says. “Don’t worry about it. Go out, have fun. Be back before eleven.”

Joffrey begins to insist that _oh, yes, of course we will, Uncle Ned_ , but Sansa just rolls her eyes and ushers the boy out, throwing a quick, “Bye, Dad!” over her shoulder before the door shuts behind them. Without her here, the air feels still and stale and the rustle of the curtains sounds louder in the breeze coming through the open window.

He doesn’t have time to turn around before the bullet connects with the back of his head.


	2. long live the king

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone dies, except the people who don't, and living isn't particularly easy, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is brutal. There's no other way to put it. A lot of things are happening at once.
> 
> I had to write a Westeros newscast, though. That was fun.

“If I knew being King of Westeros meant doing so much bloody paperwork,” Robert says as Cersei places down the final paper of her own stack next to his, “I would’ve forced Ned to take the job when I had the chance.”

“At least you aren’t arguing with Joff about how no one cares about Coming of Age Balls anymore,” she answers, crossing her legs and leaning her elbows on the desk in the way she can’t in front of most other people. Right next to her is a picture of their oldest children, and the Starks’ oldest children, together asleep on the living room floor at Winterfell under a blanket fort as if they’d never grown up. “He had fun at Gen’s last year. I don’t understand what all the fuss is about.”

Not to say that Gen had been all that excited about his, but at least he didn’t push and pull every which way. Then again, he thought it might be a chance to woo Margaery Tyrell, who’s only had eyes for Robb Stark since they were eight, and Cersei thinks that if a Tyrell ever married into the family she might stab someone. They’re all so ridiculous that Olenna alone belongs on a reality TV show - though she would absolutely watch an hour long special of the woman just being mean to self-righteous lords. “He’ll come around once he sees Sansa all dressed up,” Robert says, and starts on his next stack. “Apparently the Targaryen bitch bought one of those Rent An Armies out there in Astapor. Now Astapor - _that_ was how you do a family vacation.”

Once, back before Essos decided to get its shit together and abolish slavery same as Westeros, Astapor was known for having the best _slave_ army in the world. Now it’s little more than a band of mercenaries, but still, it really does have some lovely people and very nice resorts. “I’m still surprised Jon didn’t kill you for just taking all of us and leaving for a fortnight,” she says, and pours herself some water (unfortunately, she can’t drink while on her medication). “Does the girl still think she’ll find an ally in Westeros outside of insane fringe groups online? It’s not as though dragons win wars anymore.”

Robert just laughs, full-bellied and loud. She’s always wondered what their guards thought when they’re on duty, standing there on the other side of the door, hearing laughter and never sex. “She’s what, nineteen?” her husband says. “It would be like Theon trying to take over Westeros, except _he_ probably picked up Ned’s strategy talk. All anyone important has to do is take one look at those stupid purple eyes and that stupid white hair and they’ll remember Flea Bottom. ‘Fire and Blood.’ Strong words, but bad words.”

“What’s the point behind strong words if the whole country hates you?” Not that many people are all that positive about the Lannisters of Casterly Rock, but at the same time money is power, so it’s not quite negative either. And outside of online tabloids, which bitch about everyone, she’s never seen a particularly cruel comment about her or her children, and Jaime is hailed as savior of King’s Landing for shooting the Mad King in the back and calling Dad to stop the whole city from going up in flames. “It’s nearly ten,” she adds, placing her glass down on the desk, “and I’m done with everything I need to do today, so I’m going to put Tommen to bed.”

As she stands, he says, “I’ll join you when I’m done with this report, shouldn’t take more than a few minutes. It’s been a while since I’ve had the chance to tuck the boy in.”

Since their marriage is a selectively open one with the kids not knowing, how everyone is related to each other got mixed up along the way, but the general agreement is that Robert would technically be the step-father to Joff, Cellie, and Tommen, while Jaime is the sort-of step-father to Gen, and Lyanna is that aunt (or sort-of step-mother) they never see as often as they want to. It might be confusing, but works well enough. History shows that a happy marriages leads to a happy kingdom. “I’ll read two chapters to him, then, give you a chance to finish,” she tells Robert, and leaves, wrapping her cardigan tighter around herself now that she’s out in the drafty hallway. “Ser Barristan, Ser Arys.”

“Your Grace,” they both say.

She’s about to turn the corner when she hears it - the quiet _pop_ of a gunshot from the direction the Tower of the Hand, and almost immediately followed by another, louder one from her room. She watches as Ser Arys shoots out the door handle and enters, and when she goes to follow, to see if her _husband_ is alive, Ser Barristan catches her around the waist and puts a hand over her eyes. Inside the room, she hears Ser Arys call for back up.

That’s when her phone goes off with Jaime’s ringtone, Jaime’s who’s watching Cellie and Gen and Jon Stark. “Your Grace, we need to leave,” Ser Barristan is saying, and he sounds far away. “The children -”

“Tommen - Tommen’s the only one that’s -”

Then she hears clearly from her bedroom - “The King’s stopped breathing.” - and Ser Barristan says, more insistently, “ _Your Grace_.”

Her phone’s still ringing when when the guards suddenly turn the corner and surround them, lead by Petyr Baelish, who she appointed herself. Ser Barristan boxes her between the wall and his back, gun already out against his own men. The ringing stops, and the phone doesn’t beep for voicemail. “Move out of the way, Lord Commander,” Ser Meryn says, raising his gun higher. “Queen Cersei is under arrest for plotting against the crown.”

“Where is your proof?” she demands without pause. “Your King requires medical attention. What are doing wasting your time pointing guns at your crowed Queen?”

Ser Arys is up now, in the doorway with his gun held out to his fellow guards. “We all received the message,” Baelish answers. “Our King is dead. Ned Stark has been found dead as well. Prince Joffrey was poisoned at his dinner with Lady Sansa, who’s now missing along with the rest of your children and Lord Jon. The only one still here, who would benefit from that situation, is you, Your Grace.”

“The King and Queen have been alone together since breakfast,” Ser Arys says, and Cersei can’t for the life of her figure out how Baelish convinced anyone that she tried to organize the murders of her son, husband, one of her oldest friends - she’s still too shock to fully process that her own men are calling for her arrest, and much too quickly and yet much too late after everything happened. And -

And Jaime hadn’t left a voicemail.

Ser Barristan’s body is tense, and he’s saying, “You are men of the Kingsguard. I’m your Lord Commander. Stand down, Sers. Your duty is to the Queen, not some self-made lord.”

“She plotted to kill King Robert!”

“Where is your _proof_?”

“If you don’t back down, Sers, and allow her to be taken into custody,” Baelish says, “your own men will be forced to shoot you.”

When the first shot rings out, Cersei’s vision is too obscured by Ser Barristan’s shoulder for her to know who fires first. But then he goes down with a bullet to the leg, and Ser Greenfield has taken one to the shoulder. Ser Arys goes to take his Lord Commander’s place, but too late she feels Ser Meryn Trant’s bullet bury itself in her stomach.

She falls, twisted towards the open doorway of her bedroom, and Robert’s lifeless eyes see nothing.

 

 

Blowing off a reservation is not at all Gen’s style, so Sansa is relatively certain this must have been an effort to get her and Joffrey some alone time. Which she’s not complaining about, of course - she just thinks it’s funny that Cellie has no notion of what subtly is.

As they take their seats across from each other at a much small table than the reservation originally called for, Joffrey tells her, “You look beautiful, Sansa,” and she hopes the muted lighting hides her blush.

“Thank you,” she answers, and catches Jory roll his eyes about three tables down. She can’t see Ser Clegane’s face, but she imagine’s his reaction wasn’t much better. Outside of the four of them and the staff, this place is virtually empty as it’s pretty late for most people to still be eating. “Do you think it annoyed the staff that we had to change the reservation last minute?”

“I doubt it,” Joff says. “Less pressure to make dinner for one member of the royal family than three.”

The restaurant is called The Kingsroad, because of course everything in King’s Landing has to do with kings. It’s Margaery’s favorite in the city. “That is true,” she says, “but isn’t this the place that’s helping do the catering for your Coming of Age Ball?”

“Uh, is it?”

Oh, _boys_. They’re so clueless. She doesn’t tell him that she already has her clothes designed, an open-style purple dress with a darker purple press flower pattern and a lighter purple wrap visible underneath, finished off with flowing sleeves because who doesn’t want flowing sleeves? Margie’s also doing the wrap except in blue, and the wrap itself is the dress and over it is a pinned bodice, and the two of them are doing their hair in the same style, which they convinced Cellie to do as well. It took a full week’s planning for all of them to come up with it, and the worst part is that none of the boys are going to notice. Because, of course, Joff won’t, and Robb, who both her friends are just head over heels for, is just as bad if not worse (and no one in the world is as bad as Jon).

Actually, probably the only two guys who’ll notice are Loras and Ren, like that means anything. Useless, every single one of them.

After a clear pause, Joff suddenly says, “About that, Sansa, I was wondering if -” but gets cut off by the waiter, who asks if there’s anything they’d like to drink. “Just water, thanks.”

“Make that two, please,” Sansa adds and the waiter asks if they know their order yet. “Um, the salmon and avocado Pentos salad, please.”

 “The crabcake burger with a side of chips for us to share,” Joffrey says, and she’s secretly very pleased about that because who doesn’t like chips? Well, besides Theon, but he can get weird about certain things.

The waiter takes their orders, leaves with a “Your food will be ready shortly, Prince Joffrey, My Lady,” because Sansa might be the daughter of the Hand of the King, a lady of one of the Great Houses, but her family gets ignored a lot by media. No one really cares about the North and as she got older, she learned to appreciate it. Usually when she tells people she’s a Stark, they just look at her like she said something totally crazy and go, “You don’t _look_ Northern,” like that’s supposed to be a compliment.

It’s really not a compliment. Robb doesn’t like it, either.

“What were you saying?” she asks once the man is gone, turned away by Jory and Sandor, it looks like, even though their bill would be covered no big deal. “About your birthday.”

Now his face is red, like definitely, despite the lighting, and he looks down at his lap. “Well, uh,” he starts, and normally he’s much better spoken than this, “I know it’s some stupid, outdated tradition and all, a ball, but Mom and Dad say I _have_ to and, well - willyoubemyformaldate?”

Oh gods. Did he really just - he did. He absolutely, positively _really_ did. Nodding probably a bit too enthusiastically, she answers, “Of course. Yeah, definitely. I would love to,” and wonders if it would be too weird to invite the Prince of the Seven Kingdoms to senior formal next year.

He goes to say something else, but before he can the waiter comes back over with their water. “Guess it’s a good thing the others didn’t come along,” Joff says, taking a sip. “I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask you all weekend.”

If that isn’t the most adorable thing she’s heard in a week, she doesn’t know what is. She’s had a crush on this kid since she was thirteen, of course she’s going to be beyond happy about this. “To be honest,” she says, “I was sort of hoping - Joff? Joffrey!”

There’s blood dripping from his nose, and she sees more than hears the moment where he starts having trouble breathing. She’s up in an instant, at his side where Ser Clegane caught him when he began to slip from the chair. He’s calling for help already and she grips at Joffrey’s seizing hand. “Poison,” Jory says from above her, and that’s when her phone starts ringing.

“Get the little bird out of here, Cassel,” Ser Clegane’s saying, and she struggles as Jory begins to pull her away. “Get her out of King’s Landing.”

“But Joffrey -” she says, and she’s struggling, but then the tips of his fingers hit against hers and he croaks out, “ _Go_.”

Cooks and staff are trying to get out of the kitchen, but Jory pulls the hood of her sweater over her head, takes her by the arm, and runs.

 

 

They’re in a Flea Bottom market pretending to be normal when Uncle Jaime gets the news about Dad, and Jon wants to go back, to help, but then more news comes through about King Robert getting shot, and him not breathing, and his uncle breaks the earpiece that can probably be used as a tracker and takes them, as the kids, as priority. “We’re getting North to Winterfell,” he says, calling up Uncle Tyrion after Aunt Cersei doesn’t answer. “Your mom and Robb are in the Riverrun, your home should be safe for at least twenty-four hours. The power’s starting to go out already, so I think whoever’s behind this is trying to go for a media blackout.”

It’s true, with the power outage starting in Flea Bottom and Jon’s just been watching it spread. Uncle Tyrion picks up, says he’ll get Tommen, and Ser Barristan is down but he doesn’t know about their sister. Jon’s heart is hammering is his chest because what the fuck, this is his family. That’s his dad, his uncle, his aunt - and Sansa and Joff are off halfway across the city.

Before Uncle Jaime tells him to, he’s already calling her. She doesn’t pick up on the first try, and on the second it’s Jory who answers. “ _Lady Sansa’s safe_ ,” he says. “ _Prince Joffrey is dead. We’re going to Ms. Mordane’s. She can get us out. I called Lord Theon_.”

Hearing about Joffrey is Cellie’s last straw, and the girl actually faints. Gen’s the only reason she doesn’t hit the ground. “We’ve got to go back,” he saying. “Tommen -” and Uncle Jaime looks like he wants to agree but he’s shaking his head. “But _why_?”

“Because I know exactly what Cersei would say,” he answers, taking Gen by the arm and leading them all down an alley so they can keep off the main streets. “She’d want me to get you somewhere safe. You’re nineteen, what do you think you’re going to do?”

“I don’t know, something?”

Cellie comes back around, and they stop, and Jaime gives her his hat to hide her bright blonde curls. “If your father’s really gone,” he says, “Then that means you’re the King of the Seven Kingdoms. The rightful king, Gen. Your mother, your father, Ned, Joffrey - you’re going to be the next target. The best you can do for anyone is stay alive.”

“Did anything about anyone else come through?” Jon asks as they head off in the direction of his old nanny’s new apartment, and he thinks it’s messed up how clear his head is right now. When Uncle Jaime shakes his head, he continues, “Then what if they didn’t just go after Dad because he’s Hand? The Starks were known as bigger supporters than _your_ dad, the father of the Queen.  That makes Robb in charge of the North, and he’s attending a wedding with the fucking Boltons.”

The Starks and the Boltons have always had a rocky history, though Jon wasn’t born back before the whole ordeal started. They used to be the leading family for the Northerner police force, but when Dad became Lord of Winterfell, he decided they were too trigger happy and redesigned the whole system. There’s a reason they make everyone so nervous. If someone wants to take out Mom or Robb, they’d be the family to ask.

With his face looking paler by the minute, Uncle Jaime says, “I, uh, fuck, hadn’t thought of that. We’re making a stop in Riverrun.”

When Jon makes the call, it goes straight to voicemail, which he expected because you aren’t allowed to have your cell phones on in the sept. “Hey, it’s me,” he says, “call me back the second you get this. It’s important.” He leaves Mom the same message, because one of them is bound to check the moment the ceremony ends. Goddamn Roslin for wanting a nighttime wedding.

Both Gen and Cellie are shaking their whole way to Mordane’s, and Uncle Jaime doesn’t look too steady either. Dad’s dead. Uncle Robert’s dead, Joffrey’s dead, Aunt Cersei’s unknown. But Sansa’s unharmed, from the sound of it, and Jory said he got a hold of Theon and if anything was up at Winterfell, he would’ve mentioned it. Jon thinks back to that conversation he overheard in the Eyrie with Robb and Theon, about Granddad being poisoned instead of just dying naturally, and how Dad became Hand to look into it. Who genuinely hated his aunt and uncle enough to want to overthrow them? Or, okay, better way to put it: who had the _power_ to?

Well, there’s the Targaryen chick across the sea, but they would’ve known something was up and she’d need political sway from the inside. The Martells always hated Tywin Lannister, but so did a lot of people, and never seemed to have much of an issue with the actual King and Queen. And Tywin Lannister’s a pretty reprehensive human being, but he went on about the importance of family too much for Jon to imagine him going after his only daughter, specifically. Balon Greyjoy? That would explain why Dad was killed first, though this doesn’t seem violent enough to be his style. Most government officials don’t have that kind of power, but Small Council members might. Actually, small council members definitely do.

But, again, who would want to?

Mordane lives in a simple loft along the sealine in a flat building with a garage underneath. Instead of using the elevator, they go for the fire escape, and it’s quiet except for the sounds of all of them breathing. She’s waiting for them at the top, window flung open, and Uncle Jaime ushers all of them inside before entering. “Sansa and Jory were telling me what happened,” she says, leading them into the living room. “I’m so sorry.”

And the sad part is, that was really sincere. Outside of Granddad, Jon’s never dealt with someone dying before, and suddenly that’s three, maybe four. He thinks back to that text from Loras, eight am the day of the ceremony they weren’t there for - _sorry about your dad_. Well, fuck.

When they enter the living room, his sister’s on the couch with her knees pulled to her chest and tears slipping down her cheeks, but she looks up when they enter. “Oh, gods, you’re all right!” she says, and next thing Jon knows, he has an arm full of Sansa, who just watched her almost-boyfriend die.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m safe,” he says, and kisses the side of her head. Gen and Cellie are clinging to each other now, and Jory’s explaining to Jaime what happened. “We’re going to get out of here, get Mom and Robb.”

“Jon, I - I -”

“I know, Sansa.”

He pets at her hair and lets her cry, thinks about how it’s usually Robb who does this and they better hurry up because his brother hasn’t called back yet. To his relief, Mordane says, “I’ve got a minivan that sits eight. Robb and Lady Catelyn will have to squish in, but we can do it,” because the six hours it’ll take to get to Riverrun is too long, but he gets that it’s safer than flying. And as long as they get Robb and Mom, he really doesn’t care how long it takes.

 

 

Roslin and Edmure are the first to die, even though Robb’s guessing the woman wasn’t supposed to, but she stepped in front of that second bullet and - and everyone always told him never trust a Bolton, and he might not have trusting them, but he definitely didn’t have his guard up either. Now he’s holding a steak knife to Roose Bolton’s throat, who has an actual knife held to Mom’s, and he’s already shot Walder fucking Frey and some other guy with a gun off a dead man  for trying to kill Uncle Brynden.

Just because he’s got training for self-protection, like any lord or lady, doesn’t mean Robb ever wanted to kill anyone. And unfortunately, that stolen gun only had two bullets. More fortunately, he’s pretty sure Roose Bolton’s has almost a full clip. “Do you really think you’re faster than me, little wolf?” the man says, and lesson number two of the North is never trust a Bolton.

“Just let her go,” Robb says, and honestly wonders how his hand isn’t shaking. “I’m Lord of Winterfell, I’m the one you want.”

Oh, the way to top off this brilliant evening? Apparently whoever the fuck paid the Freys and Boltons apparently killed his dad. So, he’s Lord of Winterfell. Because his dad’s dead. And the King. And probably Gen and Aunt Cersei. And now Uncle Edmure, his wife, Uncle Brynden, and everyone else in the room.

“Robb, no -”

And he’s as fast as any of them, but not fast enough, and Bolton gets Mom just as Robb gets him. They both crumple, combined weight almost bringing him with them, and he thinks to himself, _breathe_. When he gets all straightened out and rightened because maybe he can get out, call the police, he’s greeted by a barrell of a gun poised against his chin and Ramsay’s angry scowl.

That’s when Robb notices the silence.

“Lord of Winterfell now, are you?” Ramsay’s voice is quiet, but cuts loud through sudden stillness of the room. No one’s moving except them. “Robb of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell. My father always said your family was ruining the North. We Boltons were promised a chance to save it. But now you’ve slit his throat.”

There’s blood warm on his hands, splattered against his side, and he can feel the cut on his temple he got when he hit the corner of the table bleeding into his hair. Ramsay’s eyes are almost the same shade as Margie’s. “Yeah, and now it’s just you against the rest of my family,” Robb says, trying to sound more confident than he feels with a gun beneath his chin. “Which, you know, is still six other people. So, are you going to get this over with, or are you going to talk me to death first instead?”

The knife’s still in his hand, held loosely, and he’s pretty sure he stab at the femoral artery before getting shot, and it’s not like a guy who just committed mass murder is going to be able to call for an ambulance. “Well, there are two things I can do to you, Stark,” Ramsay answers. “I can shoot you once here, kill you quick, or I can knock you out and bring you home.”

Okay, one shot to the leg, Robb can do this, he doesn’t need to find out what -

The door, which someone had locked, suddenly bursts open, and Uncle Jaime shoots Ramsay without so much as asking him to drop his weapon. Robb really doesn’t care, because the knife's already buried the guy's thigh. “My mom,” he says, and lets go of the knife, which causes Ramsay to slide to the floor. It missed the femoral artery. “I couldn’t - I wasn’t -”

Jory’s here too, but it’s just the two of them, and he wraps an arm around Robb as Uncle Jaime’s eyes go from the knife in Ramsay's leg to the deep slash on his father's neck. “I put an anonymous call into the Riverlands police,” he says. “Robb, you’re not going to want to hear this, but we’ve got to go.”

“Ser Jaime, he’s bleeding.”

“It’s not my blood.”

But it is, he realizes faintly as his uncle grabs his arm. He’d heard Ramsay’s gun discharge when it hit the ground, was aware of it on some level, but apparently he’s too in shock to register the pain. “Nothing’s lodged,” Uncle Jaime says. “We can look at it in the car. For now, Robb, we really have to leave before anyone else shows up.”

 _Mom’s_ there, though, and the rest of his Tully family, and about thirty other people all dead, but most importantly _Mom_ \- they all need Tully burials, proper Riverlands burials. And she wasn’t supposed to die, Frey pretty clearly said, “Don’t touch Lady Stark,” but then Robb went and shot him, which gave Bolton time to use her as leverage, and _fuck_. This is literally all his fault that she’s dead. It’s not until Jory says, “I think we might need to get Jon,” that he realizes he’s shaking so bad he’s barely standing on his own.

When Robb tells them, “I’m good, no, I’m good,” it sounds like someone else is saying it. Then his uncle wraps him in this awkward half-hug thing, where he’s got one arm around him, tucked towards him in a way so Robb can’t see as they walk even though he watched the whole thing start to finish. Even though he helped.

Oh, gods, he _helped_.

“Jory, get Jon.”

He, almost distantly even though they’re right next to him, hears the doors shut to the main room, and Uncle Jaime gets him on the floor, back to the wall. “Robb, Robb, I need you to look at me and breathe,” he says, hand gripping at Robb’s shoulder. “I get it, you’re scared, but you only did what you had to. But there was trouble in King’s Landing, and Jon and Sansa need you, so you have keep moving until we get to the car.”

“My dad,” he answers. “Bolton said - Uncle Robert and -”

“Yeah, kid, them too. And Joff.”

Not Gen, then, but Joffrey doesn’t make it any better because the guy is - was - still his cousin. “Aunt Cersei?” he tries to ask, but Uncle Jaime just shakes his head. “Shit.”

Then Jon’s here, dropping to his knees, and doesn’t freak out about how Robb has probably seven different people’s blood on him right now. He gets moving, finally, doesn’t make his twin have to say anything, but Jon clings to him anyway. Sansa and their cousins, except for Joff because he’s _dead_ , are waiting outside with the Starks’ old nanny. How did they know to come here? He hadn’t thought that before, but this is out the way from just about anywhere, so he’s guessing it was on purpose. And they’re leaving because the King and Queen are dead, and Dad, and now Mom, but not him even though she wasn’t supposed to die.

He’s Lord of Winterfell.

Sansa says, “You’re bleeding,” and Mordane says, “The first-aid kit’s under the back seat,” and Jon pulls him into the car. No one asks him about Mom.

They don’t have to.

 

 

Arya’s not sure who’s scaring her more: Sansa, or Robb.

It’s just about daybreak now, and everyone that isn’t here is dead. There’s Sansa, staring at nothing when Arya’s never seen her face so blank _ever_ , and Robb’s all freshly bandaged, changed, and showered, but he still showed up with dried blood all over his body. His face is kind of pale because they don’t have anything stronger than low dose painkillers, so Jon’s holding him so tight for support that he looks like he’s trying for osmosis. From what Arya managed to gather, Joff was poisoned while on a date with Sansa, and Robb got wounded in a wedding where everyone else was killed. She thinks there’s something else to the story, but if there is, he isn’t sharing it.

Earlier, Uncle Tyrion showed up along with his wife Shae, his son Podrick, and a silent Tommen, so Arya’s known about the rest of her family for hours. It still hasn’t hit the news. King’s Landing has gone into Jaime called a media blackout. “If they also came after the Starks,” Uncle Tyrion says, “then whoever ‘they’ are won’t stop just because no one can be found inside the city. They will check Winterfell sooner rather than later.”

Gendry, who’s been gnawing on his lower lip the past ten minutes since Robb and Jon came down, says, “I’m King of Westeros now. I must be able to do _something_. Like find Mom.”

Honestly, Arya doesn’t know what’s worse: knowing her parents are dead, or not being sure, like her cousins are. Uncle Jaime shakes his head, and she might not be as well versed in the ways of love as Sansa, but the look on his face is definitely heartbreak. “Stannis will act as King Regent if you don’t show up, Gen. The man’s a lot of things, but he isn’t a murderer. If Cersei - if Cersei’s still alive, he’ll keep her safe.”

“And I can’t?”

“No.”

Even though he doesn’t offer a reason, Gen stops arguing. Good thing, too, since Arya guesses the connotation there was just that he’d be killed. She’d not up for anyone else dying. “I can get us asylum Volantis with friends, a noble family,” Shae says. “The only problem would be getting there. But I think we can all agree staying here will get us killed.”

“Well, you can’t take all of us,” Jon says, and Robb wiggles in his seat. They should’ve called Dr. Luwin to check out that cut or whatever it is on his arm. “A group that big filled with two redheads and a bunch of blondes? That’s going to be noticeable.”

As she bites the side of her thumbnail and tries not to think about how her school’s senior trip is Volantis every year, Arya says, “It’ll be safer if we all split up,” and doesn’t like the idea of it already. “Jon, Robb, and Theon are all over seventeen. We can meet up again back here when we figure out what’s going on.”

Cellie’s smile isn’t a particularly happy one when she says, “I look exactly like my mom, who has the most well known face in possibly the world by this point. And then the boys are literally called ‘The Stark Boys’ as if they don’t have two other brothers, so yeah, probably isn’t a good idea to have them travelling in a pack.”

Splitting up…yeah, it makes sense, but Arya really wishes she’d kept her mouth shut. None of them have parents anymore. She’s pretty sure that means they need all the help they can get. “If you want to split off in pairs,” Osha says from the corner of the table she’s been squished into, “then the Starks come out short one. I can take someone north of the Wall. I’ve got family there who’ll take us in, no questions asked.”

Then Robb says, “Ramsay Bolton told me someone promised his father a chance to redesign the North,” which is the first time he’s opened his mouth since he came through the back door. “Someone’s got to stay here and protect it. With Dad gone, I’m Lord of Winterfell. I’ll stay.”

Then, instantly, “No!”

So Arya’d said it, but along with her was Sansa finally, Jon, Theon, Uncle Jaime, and Jory. “Look, to be perfectly honest, you should be in a hospital right now,” Theon says, “so it’s bad enough that’s out the question. But just because you aren’t actually dead doesn’t mean the media can’t _make_ you dead. Which means someone can easily say ‘oh, Robb Stark’s dead at a wedding’ and then come back up here and shoot you and no one would know the difference. The person who really can’t travel though is Bran. I’m oldest, I can stay here with him. And I know I’m not a Stark by blood -”

“You’re a Stark.”

“Okay, anyway, but between the two of us, someone should always be here,” he continues. Technically, he was adopted before Bran was born, which makes him fifth in line after Arya, and if Robb’s supposedly dead, then Jon’s the one someone’ll come after. Theon staying makes sense, since he’s above age. At fifteen she can see that easily enough. “I can get in contact with Meera Reed. If anyone’s family’s going to help out, it’s hers, and that way Bran will never be alone, either.”

From the opposite squished corner of the table, Mordane says, “I can stay with you as well. I don’t have many ties in King’s Landing, and there’s not much want in me to go back there right now anyway. Is Rodrik still around? He’ll help, I imagine.”

“‘Course he will,” Jory says. “I’ll go with Osha, give her some extra protection. If Bran’s sticking around here, it makes the most sense for you to bring Rickon.”

No one argues. Arya wonders if they’ll have to skulk around in the shadows like something out of the movies, or just use false identities, which may or may not worse. At least the Starks got ignored a lot, so their faces aren’t as well known as the Baratheons. “If I’m not staying here,” Robb says, “then I’m going south. If there’s answers, that’s where they’ll be. And I’m staying the fuck away from Dreadfort. Everyone here should do the same.”

Before Arya can offer because she wants answers, dammit, Sansa says, “I want to come,” and this looks like a trainwreck waiting to happen. She waits for someone to say something, but no one does.

Then Jon sighs, and turns to her, “Guess that leaves us, kid. How does Castle Black sound? We’ll hole up with Uncle Benjen and Aunt Lyanna, disappear into the Wall towns if we get a hint of trouble. Pyp and Grenn are both supposed to be leaving next week. Shouldn’t be too hard to convince them to get a move on earlier. As in today.”

“So you two will bring Gen, Tommen, and Myrcella to Volantis,” Uncle Jaime says, motioning to his brother and sister-in-law, “and I’m heading home. I doubt Dad knows who's behind this, and he’ll be out for blood for whoever hurt Cersei. You know how he gets about the family legacy. Robb, Sansa, I can take you with me.”

“I was thinking more Ren, down in the Stormlands,” Robb says. “The guy used to babysit us at holiday parties, and Uncle Robert was his brother. Can’t imagine he had anything to do with it.”

Now, Arya might be better at writing than politics, but she’s still a Stark. She gets it, at least on a certain degree, and she knows her history. This feels like it’s splintering towards a civil war again, as if the last one went over so well. “When do we have to leave?” she asks.

After a moment where no one does anything, Shae stands, “I’m going to get Tommen. Tyrion, we should leave while we can still get the air space.”

Then suddenly everyone’s standing and Arya realizes that they’re supposed to go off packing. That they’re going to be leaving _now_. “Won’t it look weird if everyone leaves Winterfell at once?” Jon says, clearly reading her thoughts. “Tyrion and Shae should go first, that’s a given. Then Rickon and Osha? We could go next.”

“We’re starting out in the same direction,” Uncle Jaime says, looking to Robb and Sansa. “I can start out with the two of you until our roads split. We can leave last, get a first-aid kit set up. That’s not going on away on its own.”

Robb agrees, and disappears with Jon, still leaning on him, to pack as Sansa and Arya do the same. Like the boys, they’ve always shared a room because no matter how much they fight, it just felt right. When’s the longest they’ve ever been away from each other? Not any more than a week, at most.

For once, Sansa finishes before her, not paying attention really to what she throws inside. “I know it won’t be forever,” she says once her bag is zipped, and Arya’s holding mismatching shoes, one in each hand, “but I’m going to miss you. A lot.”

Those shoes fall to the ground in a second, and Arya’s got her arms wrapped around her sister’s waist because she was expecting that, but it didn’t hurt any less. “I love you, Sansie,” she answers, using a nickname she hasn’t said since childhood.

Sansa doesn’t cry, not really, but her shoulders shake, and her, “I love you too, Arya,” sounds an awful lot like a sob.

 

 

Jaime takes the Starks on a route that avoids the Twins before they split, for Robb’s sake. A trip that should’ve taken a number of hours takes nearly two days instead because they have to keep dodging police cars, which swing by around the border of the Riverlands and the North more often than they used to. The kid sleeps through most of the trip, subconsciously slumped against his sister and in the back seat like that, they remind Jaime an awful lot of him and Cersei during long road trips when they were little.

Right before they separate so he can go home and they can go to the Stormlands, Robb goes into a convenience store and buys Sansa brown hair dye, because she’s more recognizable than he is. Almost dating the Prince of Westeros will do that to a girl. “I don’t look like me,” she says once she’s done, and the two Starks are holed up in a motel shittier than anything they’ve ever stepped foot in with him only here for a few more hours. The news is playing on mute on the TV. The brown’s so dark it’s nearly black. “I look like Jon, but a girl and with no curls.”

She does, really, and it’s weird. At least she also did her eyebrows, so it looks natural. “You two need to go by something other than Robb and Sansa, unfortunately,” Jaime tells them, and has a surreal moment where it feels like he’s in some bad spy novel only found in airport kiosks. “They’re common names thanks to the two of you, but usually not together.”

In this hotel, they’re signed in as Robb and Sansa Snow, which has to be two of the most terribly common names ever. Media might ignore the Starks for their famed, badly stereotyped Northern coldness, but the history books don’t; everyone wants to name their kid after a Stark, Lannister, or Baratheon these days. “I could be Alayne,” she says. “I played an Alayne in a school play once.” Then she glances at her brother and adds, “Robb can stay Robb. The only name more common than that is Jon.”

That sounds like a bad idea, but Jaime can understand why, considering Robb’s not reacting to much right now. Sansa’s not doing well, either, but she’s functioning better, at least. The kid needs something stronger than low dose painkillers, but that’s the best they can get their hands on without a proper prescription. Both of them should also be going through years of therapy starting now. It’s been two days, and neither of them have smiled once when the only person in the world who smiles more than the two of them is Tommen.

“We should keep Snow,” Robb says quietly. “It’s a common name up North, and my accent’s too strong to pretend I’m anything different.”

While that’s true, Robb Snow is so dull that someone’s going to make a connection to Robb Stark, depending on how the story of the wedding gets told. “Looks like the blackout’s over,” Sansa says, and grabs the remote to take the television off mute.

The newscaster is some woman Jaime’s never seen before, and they’ve missed the name. “ _For those of you who haven’t heard yet_ ,” she’s saying, and thank the gods she isn’t smiling or he might just throw something at the TV, “ _Westeros was hit by the worst tragedy it's seen since the destruction of Flea Bottom. Early this morning, Eddard Stark, Hand of the King, Lord of Winterfell, was found shot in his study by Petyr Baelish, Master of Coin. King Robert Baratheon, Protector of Realm, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and his wife Queen Cersei Lannister Baratheon, Protector of the Realm, Lady of the Westerlands, were both later discovered shot in their bedroom. Prince Joffrey was poisoned while out to dinner with Sansa Stark of Winterfell, who Ser Sandor Clegane told to find safety, but has yet to be found. Authorities suspect kidnapping._

“ _Also missing are King Gendry Baratheon, Protector of the Realm, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, Princess Myrcella, Prince Tommen, Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard, Lord Tyrion Lannister, Lady Shae Lannister, and their son Podrick Lannister_.” Along with each name, a face flashes on screen, and Jaime takes note that Jon isn’t mentioned. Neither Sansa nor Robb so much as move. “ _Until King Gendry is found to take his place on the Iron Throne, Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Dragonstone, will act as King Regent in his stead. When asked to comment, Lord Stannis only had this to say: ‘Wherever my niece and nephews are, I hope they’re safe.’ He declined any further statements._

“ _Unfortunately, that’s not where the tragedy ends. There was an incident in the Riverlands in the same morning involving House Tully and House Stark. After the marriage ceremony in the sept of Riverrun between Edmure Tully of Riverrun, and his wife Roslin Frey, there took place what an anonymous source called ‘a slaughter, more than anything else.’ Ser Brynden Tully, and Hoster Tully, Lord of Riverrun, were both found dead at the scene. Lysa Tully Arryn, Lady of the Eyrie, was unable to attend, and therefore remains unharmed. Catelyn Tully Stark, Lady of Winterfell, and Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell, were also among the dead. The only person on the wedding roster not accounted for is a young man named Ramsay Bolton, who Riverlands authorities believe was responsible for_ -”

Jaime grabs the remote from Sansa’s hand and turns it off, knowing they should probably hear more, but also knowing that’ll only make things worse, because Robb’s whole body is shaking as bad as when he found him. “Y-you shot him in the back,” he says. “Right at the heart, I felt it. I stabbed him. How’d he -”

They haven’t talked about it. Even though Sansa was there when they got him out, no one’s actually sat him down and talked about it because they haven’t had the time, so of course the girl’s sort of lost right now. “Robb, they counted you as dead, we thought that was going to happen,” Jaime says, already thinking about how he’s calling Theon the moment he’s out the room to say watch his back. “They probably just need to say someone was missing. I haven’t missed a shot in years, I doubt I suddenly did now.”

That’s not strictly speaking true, though, and Robb’s not really paying attention, but Sansa sure is, and he call tell she’s could call him out on his bullshit if she wanted. Yeah, he hasn’t missed a shot in years, he wasn’t lying about that, but aiming at Ramsay Bolton had been a split second thing and _hard_. The angle was bad, he was pressed too close to Robb, and all he’d had to have done was move a hair and, well, the two boys are close to the same height. It wouldn’t have been good.

Sansa, for obvious reasons, isn’t doing well right now, either. Really, it would’ve been better for her to go with Jon, and Arya with Robb, but if they pull themselves together this could work. Maybe. And even though he was going to separate tonight and they’ve only got two beds in here, Jaime adds, “I’ll leave in the morning, wait out the rain.”

Both of them definitely look less tense, after that, and he wishes he could convince them to come with him to Casterly Rock. While Dad had issues with Ned and to a certain degree Cat, those feelings never carried over to the children, and any enemy of whoever did this to Cersei is now a friend. Everything’s about family with him, and the family legacy, and she was the shining beacon of perfection - a queen, most beautiful woman in the kingdom even at forty, mother of four good children. Jaime wants to see whoever did this to his sister and son dead, and doesn’t care particularly about how they’re remembered. He just wants them to pay for what they’ve done.

He wonders how Lyanna is doing.

“We’re okay with sharing,” Sansa tells him. “You can take the other bed.”

Robb goes to shower, and Jaime takes the bed by the door with his gun under his pillow, almost as some flimsy sort of extra protection. The Starks curl up together in the other one, not sleeping back to back like he expected them to, and Sansa tucks herself beneath her brother’s chin.

 

 

According to the news, the Brotherhood without Banners is responsible for everything. Jon doesn’t believe a word of it.

“Well, it doesn’t matter what you think or what you don’t,” Uncle Benjen says once Jon and Arya are seated across from him in the house he and Aunt Lyanna share up by Castle Black. He’s a professor there, on the board, and some guy named Jeor Mormont, who reminds Jon of a bear, is the dean. “What matters now is I get you two safe. I’m not having a repeat of Ned and Cat if I can help it.”

Aunt Lyanna’s nowhere to be seen, even though this seems like the type of thing she’d be all over, but outside of the teary hug they got when they first arrived, they haven’t seen her at all. Considering Robert was the love of her life, basically, whether she said it or not (they weren’t blind), and Mom and Dad were family, so that’s not a surprise. “What’re we going to do?” Arya asks. “Hide out in your house until all this blows over?”

At closer look, Jon sees that Uncle Benjen’s just exhausted. He doesn’t have kids. He’s never wanted them. Now he’s stuck taking care of them. “No, actually,” he answers. “They didn’t mention Jon on the news. They said Robb’s dead. But someone’s going to come looking eventually and we’re your aunt and uncle. First place they’ll check. The best I can think of is to enroll you in Castle Black, give you two roommates. Suites can be co-ed, so I can at least get you next to each other. We’ll just say it’s a room change. Arya...just, easy classes. Real easy.”

The school year start within eight days. While Jon originally wanted to go to Castle Black with Pyp and Grenn (who drove them up here), he’d been really excited to get his acceptance letter to University of Winterfell with Robb. They were going to major in political science together, coordinate their schedules so they took the same classes with the exception of their quantitative research requirement, because Jon wanted something that wouldn’t break his GPA. “Walking around surrounded by a bunch of students, most of which probably keep up with the news,” he says. “Is that really such a good idea?”

“Less predictable.”

Though true, it’s still worth worrying over. Arya’s only fifteen, after all, shouldn’t be thrown into an environment with a bunch of college age boys. “I’ve got friends that go here, one has a randomized roommate because he was waiting on me before I decided not to come,” Jon says. “His name’s Samwell Tarly, from the Reach. He’ll back whatever bullshit cover story we make up.”

Arya’s doing something weird, he notices, where she’s pulled her ponytail over her shoulder and keeps staring at the ends. She’s definitely no Sansa when it comes to taking care about her looks, but this is still the first time Jon’s seen her hair up in ages. Considering how much she likes it, he doesn’t like the way she’s basically examining it right now. “I think we finally got some luck, kids,” Uncle Benjen says suddenly, looking up from his computer. “Tarly here’s got a co-ed suite, so we can kick out one to add in Arya. And Jon, his roommate, and his roommate’s sister, both dropped out a week ago without ever actually showing up, which means they’re still on record. As long as I change around the details no one pays attention to, it won’t be suspicious because I won’t be adding anyone into the system.”

This feels less like luck, and more like the universe is handing over a stepping stool out of pity. “So what’re our names, then?” Arya asks.

“Uh,” Uncle Benjen answers, “Jon and Nan Snow - don’t give me those looks, it’s not like I’m choosing for you.”

Before people stopped giving shit about kids being born out of wedlock, Snow was the bastard surname for the North. Going from Stark to Snow just feels _wrong_ on a deep level, even if now it’s just some normal, common name with no significance to anyone. It’s just that, given the situation, there’s something about the transition that seems like a bad omen. But he keeps that to himself and instead asks, “Isn’t it bad that I’m still Jon?”

“Well, it not like you’re here with Robb to be the Stark Boys.”

Back in Winterfell, people say Jon and Robb like it’s one word - JonandRobb - and which one of them is the person and which is the shadow is up for debate, but the point is they’re always together. Exceptions are usually when someone asks them drive somewhere, which typically was Sansa asking Robb for a ride to King’s Landing, or on the day everything went to the Seven Hells, when she asked Jon. Still, they had the same friends growing up, shared the same room, the same classes, played the same sports. He knows literally everything there is to know about Robb, and Robb knows literally everything there is to know about him.

But now they’re off on two different sides of the country, with Robb the real Lord of Winterfell, and Jon the supposed Lord of Winterfell, and when they get back together they’ll actually have to _explain_ things to each other.

And to think Jon genuinely believed he’d be able to survive college alone. It’s only now that he realizes he’d probably have transferred back by the end of the first semester.

“My face is more well known than his is,” Arya says, absolutely miserable sounding. “My best friend is the Princess of Westeros. I’m never the focus of a picture or anything but I should - cut my hair, or something.”

Oh. _Oh_. That’s why she was staring at it. “I’m, uh, sure Lyanna will do it,” Uncle Benjen says, but sounds uncomfortable. Jon feels kind of uncomfortable, thinking about his sister with short hair. “The two of you don’t have too strong accents, though. You can get away with being from somewhere other than the North. Snow’s more common up here, but it’s not unheard of everywhere else.”

“I know King’s Landing better than most locals,” Arya says, and curls up into herself. “Or Riverrun. We can probably get away with -”

“Let’s go with King’s Landing.” Yeah, he might not have seen the wedding hall, and he definitely didn’t see what Robb saw, but he _did_ see the aftermath with his twin shot and bloodsplattered and yeah, even though Riverrun might be Mom’s home, Jon’s not looking for reminders. And more than that, the only Tully alive right now is Aunt Lysa, but she's Lady of the Vale, which leaves the children - them, and their cousin, but Aunt Lysa was younger than Mom. Robb's alive, which makes Jon Lord of Riverrun, technically, but Robb's also dead, which makes  _Sansa_ Lady of Riverrun, which no one thought of when planning this out. If they say they're from the Riverlands, someone's bound to draw the connection.

Uncle Benjen nods, types something in. “The other room in Tarly’s suite is full,” he says, “but I’m moving out the girl from Deepwood Motte to the room Nan Snow was supposed to be in. Seems safer to keep you away from Northerners. Arya, your roommate’s an abroad student from Wildling Country. Name’s Ygritte Giantsbane.”

Osha always just calls Wildling Country “north of the Wall,” which somehow sounds better. Arya’s still playing with her hair, frowning at its ends. Considering how noticeable Sansa’s hair is, and how she’s actually counted as missing persons, Jon wonders what she’s doing about it. If Robb’s doing anything about his.

Though it takes a while, Uncle Benjen finishes their transcripts, promises they can get their IDs done tomorrow along with everyone else at orientation. After, Arya doesn’t ask Aunt Lyanna to cut her hair, instead does it herself, and Jon helps, so it’s messy and kind of choppy, but it works anyway. When they’re done, she looks at herself in the mirror with her hair now to her chin, and cries. Jon might not be an expert on people, but he’s pretty sure it has little to do with the sudden length change.

He kind of wants to cry, but he’s already exhausted all his tears.

 

 

So this is the thing about Winterfell: it’s a castle.

People seem to forget that because the Stark family years ago modernized it and it’s actually on the smaller end, but it’s still a fortified castle. There are hidden rooms and secret passageways, and built-in safety precautions there that don’t rely on technology. And unless you grew up learning them, they’re borderline impossible to figure out on your own. Theon doesn’t know how useful they’d actually be, but after Jaime gives him the call about Ramsay fucking Bolton still probably being alive, it makes him feel better.

Mr. Reed sent over not just Meera, but Jojen too just so Bran could have a friend around, and Theon invites Ros to stay, at least for a little while. He feels sort of awkward about it, having so many people in his house that aren’t his family, but according to the news, five out of the seven kids should be here. And with seven kids, people were coming in and out all the time, and there was always at least one light on at any given point in the day, so he needs to keep up appearances. He gave them their pick of the guest rooms like he did for Mordane, not wanting to disturb anyone else’s because they _are_ coming back, but midway through the first night Ros stumbled up into his room and just sort of stayed. That makes him feel better, though he’ll never admit it.

Now it’s late afternoon, and he’s curled up in his bedroom with one his textbooks for the coming school year, trying to think about something other than his dead family. Ghost, Grey Wind, and Lady are all snuggled on the floor beside his bed with his cat Yara licking her paw next to him. Earlier, he'd had to do what's hopefully his own public announcement because with Jon supposedly here, Sansa supposedly missing, and Robb supposedly dead, he's Lord of Riverrun since Arya wouldn't be old enough. No one asked him if he was moving, which is good because it's not like he can, but this still sucks because he spent half his life in therapy, not training to be a Lord of Anywhere. And thankfully, through all of this, no one’s had the audacity to say “well, it’s not like were _really_ your parents” or "you're not _really_ Catelyn Tully Stark's son" yet, or he might just commit a murder of his own.

When he hears the door open, he says, “I’m not hungry,” almost automatically because Meera’s idea of “fixing” someone involves food. He mostly needed to her for Bran, and because she’s got training which makes three people who can shoot a gun now, but he doesn’t want anyone’s pity.

It’s Ros, though, and she’s carrying a newspaper. “Don’t worry, I’m not here to force you to be a healthy individual,” she says, and shoos him over to the side so she can take a seat on his bed. “You should see this. The finger pointing’s started, just like you said it would.”

The article’s titled "Are we on the eve of another war?," which only makes his mood worse. Lord Stannis is trying to keep the peace, it looks like, but there’s only so much a person can do when the King and Queen are dead, and the new King and all his siblings are missing. “So no one believes the Brotherhood without Banners bullshit. What a surprise,” he says, skimming the article. “Looks like Lord Tywin isn’t planning on mentioning Uncle Jaime any time soon, if he’s not already in here. And, oh, awesome, Balon Greyjoy found a way to blame the Starks. Didn't say anything about me, yet, though.”

Even though he’s never mentioned to Ros before that he was Theon Greyjoy before he was Theon Stark, she knows. Everyone knows. He’s the first ever case of a kid being taken away from a Great House on the grounds of child abuse. Cat’s the one that called child safety, though he doesn’t have much memory of it, and when it looked like he was going to be slipped into the foster system, Ned basically said “fuck that” and officially adopted him. So, no, Theon’s not particularly surprised, either, that Balon Greyjoy took victim blaming to a whole new level.

Ros rubs a hand between his shoulder blades, and he forces himself to breathe evenly. He really doesn’t like to think about his life before that magical name change. “It doesn’t mention the Martells,” she says. “Seems to me they like the usually say everything’s the Lannisters’ fault.”

“That’s because everything usually _is_ Tywin Lannister’s fault,” Theon answers. “That being said, I doubt he’d kill his own daughter and grandson. They had their issues, but they weren’t, like, detrimental or anything.”

“Well, it’s like that for most you lords and ladies, isn’t it? Family comes first?”

 _Family, duty, honor._ “Yeah. Most.”

Unlike most people he knows, Ros lives alone. She’s not from here, but White Harbor where she lived with a single mom, and came here for school because Winter Town Liberal Arts College has one of best dancing programs in Westeros. They met in a mandatory writing class last year. “If everyone starts declaring sides, if sides start showing up,” she says, “then what’re you going to do?”

With a shrug, he says, “I’ll have to figure it out, I guess,” and puts the paper down. Technically, he’s acting Lord of Winterfell right now since he was in line before Bran, but both Jon and Arya are supposed to be here. And what’s he supposed to do anyway? He’s in _art school_. “If Dorne keeps itself neutral, so can we. We have reason to, with just a bunch of kids running the show now.”

It’s a shit excuse, but the best he can come up with right now, and if he’s lucky, he has some time to brainstorm. Politics are the twins’ thing, though, not his, and Sansa can talk circles around people when she wants to. If she were here, she could probably just confuse everyone into leaving them alone. Well, and if she were here he wouldn't have to figure out how to handle two provenances at once.

But she’s not here, nor Arya, and the twins aren’t, and Rickon’s in fucking Wildling Country. Most of all, though, Ned and Cat aren’t here, and unlike the others, they aren’t coming back.

Theon hasn’t quite figured out how to deal with that, yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Timeline issues and the Brotherhood without Banners vs Cersei being accused with all be explained in time. This is told in third person limited, so readers find out as the characters find out.
> 
> Also, there will be character interactions in this that're nothing like the show or book since everyone's splitting off in different directions, so let's see how this goes. What happened with Theon and his lordship issues was honestly a last minute realization, which is why it's kind of awkward, but I needed him to be the one in Winterfell for reasons. Lords in this don't actually have a terrible amount of power, though, so it's not as big of a deal as it would be in the book/show.
> 
> One last thing, I swear: you can request character point of views, if you want. Like the show and book, there'll be a lot, though the Starks will always be included. I need others to further the plot, and important characters are scattered all over Westeros and Essos, so take your pick. My exception, obviously, are dead people.


	3. the ghosts of riverrun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dead boys can be surprisingly persuasive.

Dany’s in a bar in Astapor when she hears the news. The story’s playing on the screen above the shelves of alcohol she doesn’t care about, badly subtitled in Valyrian at the bottom. Usurper Robert Baratheon is dead, as well as his wife, the daughter of the man who ordered all for the murder of the Targaryen children, and their second son. “If we find out who did this,” she says, turning to Jorah, “do you think I may have found my Westerosi ally?”

To her surprise, he doesn’t seem to be listening for once, eyes instead still trained on the screen. “Oh, that’s just wrong,” he says after a moment. “I don’t think these are people you want to ally with, Daenerys.”

“Why?”

Instead of answering, he calls to the bartender to turn the volume up. The man does, and Dany hears the woman say, “ _In other news, still no word on the whereabouts of Ramsay Bolton, suspected murderer of Robb Stark, who became Lord of Winterfell at the time of his death, Catelyn Tully Stark, Lady of Winterfell, the rest of House Tully with the exception of Lysa Tully Arryn, Lady of the Eryie, and thirty-six other people. Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell, has made no comment on the event now known as ‘The Red Wedding,’ though Theon Stark of Winterfell, the only other member of House Stark currently of age, has come forward to take his position as Lord of Riverrun until the point where Sansa Stark of Winterfell is found_.”

Though the anchorwoman goes to say something more, the bartender mutes it again and glares at them as though daring them to ask otherwise. Exiled royalty isn’t treated very well in Astapor, they’ve discovered. “What’s wrong?” she asks, looking to Jorah with a frown. “The King, Queen, and Hand all out of the way, and Stannis Baratheon is supposed to have the personality of cardboard box.”

“The Stark children were the darlings of the North. If you live there, you hear about them everywhere you go,” he answers. “The oldest is your age, about, so all born after the Rebellion. They were good, clean kids. Say what you will for the adults, Daenerys, but Lord Robb didn’t deserve to die like that.”

According to Viserys, it was Robb’s aunt to began that war that ruined the Targaryen dynasty, but no, Jorah has a point. The news says he was seventeen, like Prince Joffrey, and the missing Sansa is sixteen. The whole world’s out to hurt teenage girls; wherever she is, Dany hopes she’s safe. “How did the _entire_ royal family go missing in one night?” she says, reading the subtitles. “I thought Westeros was supposed to be the most technologically advanced state in the world. No one could locate a bunch of blondes?”

“That does seem a bit weird. Something else is going on - on top of over forty people getting brutally murdered in the course of a day,” Jorah says. “I also don’t think the Boltons would act on their own. This feels like a coverup.”

“Could Lady Sansa be with them?” Dany asks, because the subtitles mention something about a date, but it’s just so badly translated that it’s difficult to tell. “The two families are known to be close.”

And they really are, too, enough so that she hears about their stupid friendship even here in Essos. She doesn’t care that Prince Joffrey and Lady Sansa are ‘on the verge of becoming the new hot couple,’ or that the ‘Stark Boys’ and Prince Gendry were spotted in Dorne with Whatever and Whatever Tyrell. The media eats the comings and goings of the royal family right up like they _aren’t_ ruining the country.

With a shrug, Jorah says, “It’s possible, but that’s not how it is for Great Houses in Westeros. Family comes first. If she were safe, she would’ve gone to Riverrun because that’s where her mother was.”

Hm. Well, the whereabouts of Sansa Stark, while tragic, aren’t Dany’s problem (unless it turns out they are, in which case, that’s just her luck by this point). “I’ve never heard of the Brotherhood without Banners before,” she says. “Sounds like a band. Do you know anything?”

“They’re just some fringe group that’s been around since the dawn of time. I doubt they have the political power to pull something like this off,” he says, and finally turns away from the TV where it’s started showing the Stark family’s smiling faces. Lord Eddard’s got his arm around his wife, who looks like she’s laughing, and their kids are next to them in a tangle of arms and dark or orange hair. From the party hat on the youngest one’s head, Dany’s guessing it’s some sort of holiday or birthday.

Despite their political inclinations, they’re a beautiful family, she’ll give them that. What she needs as Westerosi allies, though, is a Great House, not some crazy fringe group that may or may not have been involved. As usual, both Baratheon brothers are out of the questions and she wouldn’t want to work with either of them anyway, and not cooperating with the Lannisters is a given. House Martell hates them well enough, apparently, and Elia Martell was Rhaegar’s wife, but he left her for Lyanna _Stark_ , who didn’t even return his affections, so that’s probably out of the question, too. She could understand if they weren’t fond of Targaryens after that, either.

Then there’s House Tully, which even before it was extinct was married into the Starks, and now their land is owned by one. Oh, Joy. There’s always House Arryn, but the Lady of the Eyrie is Lady Catelyn’s younger sister, so _that_ would be a problem. House Tyrell is closely tied to both the Starks, and the Baratheons if social media is anything to go by. This basically leaves House Greyjoy as the only one to hate absolutely everyone that Dany also hates but that’s...out of the question. She’ll admit to not knowing a lot about the Stark siblings, but Jorah did tell her about Lord Theon when explaining the Great Houses in more detail than she’d ever dealt with before. And, well, she’s not up to working with someone who hit around his kid. Not after growing up with Viserys.

“Well, we’ll figure it out,” she says after a moment, and goes back to sipping her drink. “Next stop, Yunkai.”

Jorah downs the rest of his beer in one gulp, and calls for the check as the picture on the screen changes to a tearful interview with Lady Margaery who looks like she doesn’t want to be there at _all_. Outside Dany’s army is preparing, handed over because at least her name carries weight to the Generals, and ten thousand isn’t nearly enough. It’ll take time, but they’ll figure it out.

They have to.

  
  


 

Though it’s hard, Robb manages to pull himself together for Sansa’s sake.

Unfortunately, that’s about the best he can do. He wanted to avoid Riverrun, but the estate’s empty now that Theon’s claimed it without moving in, and Robb still has a hole in arm, which he can’t magically heal on his own. “This really needed stitches,” Sansa says with a sigh, leaning against the bathroom doorway. “At least let me help you bandage it up.”

For obvious reason, he feels bad that she has to deal with this. After everything she’s been through, she deserves a lot better. “It’s really not that bad,” he says, which is totally bullshit because no one’s actually okay after getting shot, even if the bullet didn’t lodge. “I’ve had worse.”

“Robb, you’ve never even broken a bone.”

All right, so maybe he hasn’t had worse, but it’s easy to pretend otherwise just to keep things from getting too bad. They’re sleeping in the east wing of the estate, which is the opposite side from the sept and thankfully the guest area so they don’t need to deal with looking at anyone’s old rooms. And during that first night with Uncle Jaime, they discovered they sleep better together, something that should feel screwed up but doesn’t, so they’ve been crashing with each other in the same bed. The only risky thing about staying here is Aunt Lysa or Petyr Baelish potentially showing up, but so far they’re in the clear.

Sansa sighs, and slumps more of her weight against the doorframe. “We’re going to have to pass by King’s Landing to get to Storm’s End, you know.”

Though one of them should probably be “in charge” on this trip, neither of them are, making for a really confusing mess where they have a destination but both keep blanking on common sense until the other one realizes it. As much as he doesn’t like Tywin Lannister, maybe they should’ve gone with Uncle Jaime until they got their heads on straight. “Unless we take the long way and go through the Reach,” he answers.

Eventually, they do need to make it to King’s Landing, but until they’re fully functional, it’s a bad idea to try to do anything by themselves, and from what they’ve seen on the news, Renly is as pissed off as Robb thought he would be. “Then we’ll go through High Garden. How will we just get in contact with Margie, though?” his sister says, and he finishes bandaging himself. “Loras is probably with Renly by this point, which leaves her the only person in High Garden I trust enough to keep our secret.”

While Margie’s about as overly ambitious as the rest of her family, at least she’s not a bitch about it. “We’ve got enough spare change, Sans,” he says. “Payphones are the key to everything. It’s not that weird for her to just disappear for the night, or she can tell her dad she’s off to see Loras and Renly. She can’t exactly be the happiest person in the world right now.”

“She really liked you,” Sansa tells him as he follows her back into the bedroom they’re sharing. “I mean, really, really liked you. And we were best friends, so yeah, probably not happy.”

“I thought she had a thing for Gen.”

“No, Gen had a thing for her.”

That sounds like something straight of a bad romance movie he doesn’t care about but whatever, he doesn’t have it in him to decide how he feels about that. “We’ll actually be able to access real-time information when we finally get in touch with someone,” he says, and feels exhausted. “No more scrounching for newspapers.”

Sansa just sighs again. “Yeah.”

Last they heard, some asshole decided to do a DNA test on Joffrey’s body because apparently respecting the dead isn’t a thing anymore. His father? Uncle Jaime. Robb’s not surprised. Sansa’s not surprised. He doesn’t understand why _anyone_ should be. But that basically led to the conclusion that Cellie and Tommen were illegitimate, too, and unfortunately for everyone who wants to see the Lannister-Baratheon name soiled forever, Stannis basically said “fuck you guys, Gendry is an exact split between the two of them,” so the new King of Westeros is still the King of Westeros. Go figure.

He wonders if their cousins have heard yet, and how they’re taking the news if they have. If they care as little as he and Sansa do.

“How do you think everyone else is doing?” she says suddenly, and Robb’s heart sinks.

“Safe, presumably,” he answers, even though he isn’t sure. “We would’ve heard about it if they weren’t.”

Or maybe not. He always thought news travelled so fast in Westeros, but not now, because apparently media blackouts are possible. But the answer seems to satisfy her, and that’s what matters. “Lord Tywin’s probably angry right now.”

“Lord Tywin’s always angry.” Still, she has a point - even if he’d figured out what was happening between his son and daughter, it was still out in the open in now.

She leans her head against his shoulder, pressed up against the side with his uninjured arm. “I miss everyone.”

The guilt hits him hard then, because he still hasn’t told anyone about Mom, that she wasn’t supposed to die but he was, which means he’s the reason she’s gone. Everyone could’ve had their mother, not a brother who killed three people and intended to kill a fourth. And he almost tells Sansa right there, really, but he’s afraid she’ll leave and he doesn’t know if he can deal with that, so he bites it back last second.

“Yeah,” is all he says instead. “Yeah, me too.”

  
  


 

Settling into Castle Black is bizarrely simple, Arya finds, despite only being fifteen. Her course schedule is the schedule every university student is jealous of because it’s just so _easy_ while still filling actual requirements (she needed it to look real), and though she physically looks young, the way she holds herself and acts definitely makes her seem older than a lot of freshman. Apparently she ended up more ladylike than she ever realized. She’s pretty sure there are other students from the North here and there who recognize her, because she’ll get these stares that last too long before the person pointedly looks away.

No one’s said anything.

Part of the ease is having Jon as her suitemate and the fact that Sam knows who she is, which means she has two people who don’t call her Nan, one of the worst names she’s ever heard. Another thing is Ygritte Giantsbane, her roommate, and hands down one the most awesome people she’s ever met. In a different situation, Arya would’ve loved living with her.

Really, the only problem (besides the obvious, but she’s doing a seriously good job repressing her emotions, so yay for that) is that people just won’t stop talking about everything that happened, even over a week later. “I don’t see what the big deal is,” she hears a student say as she settles in the Shieldhall across from Sam, who she shares an open midday slot with for two days a week. “The Targaryens banged each other generations. At least the Baratheons were, you know, sane.”

Oh, yeah, the big controversy of this week? Joff, Cellie, and Tommen are all Uncle Jaime’s, not Uncle Robert’s. Wow, such a shock. It’s not like they’re skinny, golden haired, classical painting worthy, precious-faced little lions or anything. Arya’s a kid and figured that out for herself ages ago.

The girl across from him says, “Yeah, I know. Aren’t there more important things going on? Like where the fuck Lady Sansa is? Or that Bolton kid who killed our Lord and Lady?”

Arya watches Sam’s shoulders tighter like he’s expecting her to say something, but she just sighs. By this point she’s used to it. Besides the accents, it’s pretty easy to peg who’s Northern, who’s Southorn, and who’s Free Folk by how they talk about everything that’s going on. The only real consistency is everyone is really super disturbed by the “Red Wedding,” which isn’t all that weird. Regardless of where a person’s from, or what they believe in, everyone can agree it’s messed up to kill a bunch of people in a holy place during a marriage ceremony. For purely selfish reasons, though, she just wishes everyone would shut up about it.

More than once she’s had to remind herself Robb’s not dead. Then she remembers Mom is, and doesn’t feel any better.

“I’m used to it,” she mumbles, as the guy says, “Maybe Lady Sansa’s off with the royal family. Weren’t she and Prince Joffrey, like, a thing?”

According to Sansa, he’d been asking her to be his date to his Coming of Age Ball the night he died. Yeah, definitely a thing. “You know, I’m suddenly not hungry,” she says, and pushes her sandwich away from herself.

“Your brother’s going to be out of class soon,” Sam says, and looks almost guilty, though he shouldn’t. It’s not like any of this is his fault. “He’ll want dinner.”

Robb’s not dead. Sansa’s not missing. They’re together, Jon’s with her, and Rickon’s safe with Osha. Theon and Bran are at home in Winterfell, though Theon’s probably working himself to the ground trying to pretend to be so many people at once. And basically everyone else is across the Narrow Sea. They’re _safe_. Those that are dead are dead, and there’s no worrying beyond the grave. Must be nice, really.

Even though Sam’s probably still hungry, he gives up on eating too because he’s just that type of person, and together they go to drop off their trays. “Ten page essay assigned within the first week,” she hears one person say, and another off to the other side goes, “King Robert totally had to have known,” and finally the student doing the dishes tells the other student with him, “I’m going to write my Crime in Current Events paper on the Red Wedding.”

Sam looks at her with big, sad eyes, but says nothing, and Arya tells herself she’s used to it.

Unfortunately, she’s not.

  
  


 

“So, is it true, then? What they’re saying about my mom and dad?”

Once they heard about the DNA test, everyone disappeared into their own rooms, and no one stopped them. Aunt Shae’s friend is a woman named Talisa Maegyr, a noble woman in Volantis who doubles as a neurosurgeon by day. She’s pretty good, has a little brother who lives downtown and her parents retired, so she had a lot of free space. Gendry shares a room with Pod, which he’s okay with, and Tommen and Myrcella share another one. The way he and his sister figure, if the Starks can share, so can they.

Now there’s...this, though, and Gendry’s not really sure how to react. “They never said anything,” Uncle Tyrion answers, who came to check on him while Aunt Shae when to go check on Tommen and Cellie and he doesn’t know where Pod is, “but I always suspected as much. Lyanna was the love of Robert’s life. Cersei was richer. It makes sense that they’d come to an agreement.” He pauses, then adds, “Does it bother you?”

If Gendry’s honest with himself, he doesn’t know. Like, at all. Does it? He thinks maybe part of him suspected, but never really wanted to acknowledge it. “I’m Mom and Dad’s, though,” he says, and it isn’t a question. “Actually Mom and Dad’s.”

“You look too much like both of them to be anyone else’s,” his uncle says. “Baratheon hair and body. Lannister eyes. Stannis is making sure the whole public knows it, too.”

Right now, he doesn’t care about being King of Westeros. He _hasn’t_ cared since Uncle Jaime got the call in about Uncle Ned, and then about Dad. “So, Mom and Dad,” he asks. “They really liked each other? That wasn’t just some act?”

With a slight nod, Uncle Tyrion says, “They were certainly friends, if that’s what you mean. And your mom liked Lyanna and your dad liked Jaime. Like I said, I had my suspicious. I wouldn’t be surprised if Ned and Cat had known.”

“Do you think that could be the reason someone killed all of them?”

“Doubtful. Robb couldn’t have known, and they were very clearly targeting him, too.”

That does make him feel better, he guesses, because he doesn’t want to think about how Uncle Jaime and Aunt Lyanna would feel if that got everyone killed. “I guess it doesn’t bother me, not really,” he says cautiously, because he’s not entirely sure he means it. “I just - it’s weird to think Cellie and Tommen are just my half-siblings. How’re they holding up?”

“Shae’s talking to them. I don’t know yet.” About what he thought, but that’s still not a good situation, Gendry figures. They found out their uncle’s their dad and their dad’s their step-father. His head hurts just thinking about it. “You definitely aren’t Lyanna’s, though, if that’s what you’re thinking. I would know. I was in King’s Landing when you were born.”

Though the thought hadn’t crosses his mind, he can understand why it would. “Didn’t it take a week for them to think up a name for me?”

Again, Uncle Tyrion nods. “Jon Arryn’s the one who decided on it eventually, told them a week was too long and he was sick of hearing names flying around. I suggested Steffon and my sister threw a pillow at me. Sorry about that.”

Mom and Dad were young when they had him, Gendry knows that, and he’s privately pleased he’s actually theirs. It’s selfish, considering his siblings aren’t, but it means he can do something to fix their reputation...eventually. The reputation itself he doesn’t particularly care about, but he _does_ care about the way their rule is remembered. They did a good job at it; they don’t need to go down remembered as another bad King and Queen after the Targaryens.

“I want to go home,” he says, the words slipping out before he can stop them when he wasn’t even really thinking about them, and looks out the window across the landscape with its palm tree lined sidewalks and river cutting through the middle of town, barely visible through the row of houses across from it. All the buildings are stucco, brightly colored in a way even King’s Landing wasn’t, and it’s closer to a suburb than a city.

Is King’s Landing even home anymore? He can picture it down the last detail - Flea Bottom, redone with the design he helped sketch out, the marketplace sprawling through the center of the city with shop and stall owners hawking their goods, all the gardens and parks starting to slowly wilt now that winter is coming. The Red Keep eating away at the cliffside, old fashion looking and out of place, the throne room with its peach columns and painted vines of green. His bedroom had a view of the sea, and yellow walls with a bed smaller than people expected and green sheets with white pillows that matched the curtains. All bedrooms had rugs, though nowhere else did.

Yeah, King’s Landing was definitely home, and the only thing he misses more is his family. And unlike his city, they aren’t coming back.

  
  


 

Dad got over the whole incest thing shockingly quickly, though Jaime thinks he’s choosing to ignore it more than anything else. Because, after all, they have more important things to worry about.

“Now, who exactly did Stark shoot?” he asks after all statements are given and he’s spoken to all the lords and ladies of the Great Houses and everything’s all neat and proper like always. “Did he tell you?”

Since he reached Casterly Rock, Jaime’s been going over the same thing in his head, but has only come up with dead end after dead end. Maybe having a second person will help. “Yes, actually,” he answers, “and unless he told his sister recently, I’m the only one. Walder Frey, a Frey he didn’t know, he slashed Roose Bolton’s throat, and stabbed Ramsay Bolton near the femoral artery in the thigh. Combined with me shooting him in the back, that should’ve killed him.”

Yes, it really should have killed the bastard, but things happen, he supposes. So now instead of a crazy, murderous kid lying dead on a sept floor with a bullet to the back and a knife to his leg, they've got a crazy, murderous kid running around somewhere in Westeros, presumably with his eye on his Winterfell. “That boy is nearly his father reborn,” Dad says. “Honor to the bone. He wouldn’t have shot Walder Frey without reason.”

“That’s what I was thinking.” It’s true, too, and Robb hadn’t said it but he very heavily _implied_ it. Unfortunately he was too traumatized by that point to get any real answers out of. Sansa is not much better. The two of them should’ve come with him, could've stayed safe in his childhood room, maybe, so the boy could get actual medical attention. “Someone paid two families off. That would take a lot of money, certainly more than some random organization has.”

How anyone believes that story is a mystery, but apparently the majority of the public does. Dad says, “Both families used to be Minor Houses before Westeros did away with that system. They have money of their own. Only someone very rich, or a Great House would have the funds to pay both off. Three Houses already can be eliminated from the suspect pool.”

One, of course, being the Tullys, as they’re all gone now. Two, the Starks, who’re now just a bunch of kids, and three, the Lannisters. Lesser branches wouldn’t have the money no matter how rich they are and neither he nor Dad did it. And whoever orchestrated the death of Catelyn Stark was at least involved, if not had a direct hand in the assassinations in King’s Landing.

“Robert never got along with his brothers, particularly Stannis,” Jaime says. “He gains the most from this if Gen doesn’t show up. He’s following a new religion now, too, might not care so much about the location.”

“True. And paying someone off isn’t Renly’s personality.” And he’s much too angry about this, way more than can be faked, but he was that awkward middle age where he was young enough to be friends with the kids and old enough to be friends with the rest of them, too. “It is the Tyrells’, though.”

Sadly, it’s the Lannisters’, too, but again, definitely not them. “Lord Mace doesn’t have the balls, his wife’s not much better,” he points out. “Lady Olenna might, if she was willing to hurt her granddaughter over it. Willas is despicably nice, Garlan doesn’t care enough, and Loras and Margaery are both young.” The girl was also very attached to Sansa and the twins, specifically. “The Martells?”

Again, paying someone off doesn’t seem their style, but they aren’t particularly close to the Baratheons or the Starks and outright hate the Lannisters. Jaime thinks it sounds reasonable enough, but Dad just says, “Do you really think Prince Oberyn would give up the chance to openly display his revenge?”

Oh, gods, the fucking Martells. How is that the most annoying House in Westeros owns the nicest area? Not to mention their coffee, and Jaime has secretly boycotted Sunpear. “That really only leaves Lysa, who’s Cat’s sister. I get that she’s nuts, but that’s extreme even for her.”

“Yes, and Jon Arryn was her husband.” Earlier, Jaime told his dad about his conversation with Ned, Cat, and Lyanna in the Eyrie because there’s clearly a connection there and he’s officially one of the last one alive who knows about it. “Though I suppose she gains nothing from this. Not even the Riverlands.”

“To be fair,” Jaime says, “Theon probably snatched up that title so quickly on purpose just so she wouldn’t get her hands on it. Seems like the sort of thing the boy would do.”

“And now it’s time to see who’s worse, an overworked teenage boy, or a woman who refuses help at every turn.”

Dad drums his fingers on the desk and really, Jaime hasn’t seen him this tense in years. It’s inspiring, truly. “There’s always Daenerys Targaryen,” he says. “We know she suddenly had the funds to rent an army from Astapor. Being a Dothraki widow couldn’t possible have left her with enough money to do that. The Iron Bank?”

If it is the Iron Bank, then Jaime needs to find someone who can hack into their private records to see if a loan is on file. Their organization there is meticulous. “It sounds more likely than most options in Westeros,” Dad answers, “though she would need someone inside King’s Landing, too. The Small Council is corrupt enough that it isn’t too far a stretch to imagine someone there was involved.”

Just because he’s from Essos, Varys is the first person to come to mind, but Jaime quickly dismisses it. If anything, he’s the most loyal to Westeros there, which is mind numbingly backwards. On the other hand, his loyalty could be useful for something. “ _We_ need an insider, then, to look into everyone,” he says. “I know who to contact, too.”

“If you say Baelish -”

“It’s not Baelish.”

Despite Petyr Baelish never doing anything particularly suspicious, his obsession with Cat just freaked Jaime out (seriously, anyone with eyes could see how nauseatingly in love she and her husband were). So, no, even though it’s probably not him as he’d never allow her to get hurt, Jaime’s not contacting him. Varys is the much safer option. Besides, who else is there? Pycelle? Renly would be preferable, but the guy ran back to Storm’s End after the funeral so he wouldn’t have to deal with Stannis. And Stannis added Melisandre on, but she doesn’t seem trustworthy either.

As he stands, Dad says, “Before you go make a call, or send some text, Jaime, I’m getting you a new phone. For all extensive purposes, you’re not here. Your phone shouldn’t be here either. For now, use mine.”

Even when Jaime first showed up, there was never any debate about whether or not he should reveal that he’s here. Admitting he’s in Casterly Rock would just lead to questions he doesn’t want to answer. Going missing is just easier. “Thanks,” he says, accepting the phone held out to him. “I’ll be back soon.”

Though Dad looks at him strangely, he makes no comment, and allows him to leave the office with a simple “goodbye.” Jaime wonders how long it will take before he brings up The Subject of Week, and hopes that it’s never.

  
  


 

School starts. She always thought rumors and all that bullshit ended in college, and especially in a place like WTLA, but she enters Contemporary Intermediate known not as “Ros, Best Dancer in the Class,” but as “Ros, Theon Stark’s Girlfriend.” And people are, naturally, curious.

It’s before class, and she’s stretching on the floor when this dumb bitch from Flea Bottom who looks like she’s from Essos but isn’t comes over. “So what’s it like?” she asks, plopping down into a split like this is a perfectly all right conversation to have. “You know, dating the Lord of Riverrun?”

A few girls giggle. Of the two guys in this course, one blushes and the other rolls his eyes. WTLA is supposed to have the second most prestigious dance program in all of Westeros, which is why it’s so selective, and she thought the others would be better than this. “It’s not up for discussion,” she answers, but isn’t surprised when she’s suddenly surrounded by a ring of people.

“Have you seen Lord Jon at all?” the eye rolling boy says. “We haven’t heard a peep out of him since the Red Wedding.”

Everything staring at her a bit too closely, and Ros realizes at least the boy there is legitimately worried, something she’s noticed quite a lot of people are. By this point she’s just completely given up on aMessenger because #PoliticsJustGotExciting and #WhateverPrincessMyrcellaIsStillHot are both trending topics, but _another_ trending topic was #RobbStarkDeservedBetter. This is the North, people care about their lords, especially since they’re young and pretty (Theon, in particular, in her opinion, is very pretty). And because at least this one boy is worried enough, she says, “Jon Stark will be fine, same as Theon, Arya, Bran, and Rickon. It’s just difficult right now for everyone.”

“So are you, like, a shoulder to cry on?” Shyra says, which makes Ros genuinely want to kill her. “Must be _exhausting_.”

The other boy says, “What’s Winterfell like? Is it all modern or does it still look like a castle?”

“Is it true your Lord Theon’s first girlfriend?” a girl whose name she doesn’t know asks, much too enthusiastically.

“But what’re the crypts like?”

“Ew, what sort of question is that, Beth?”

Before Ros can tell everyone to shut up, that it isn’t their business and excuse them, but what happens between she and and her boyfriend _stays_ between the two of them unless she says otherwise, their instructor walks in. And apparently he heard some of the conversation because the first thing he tells everyone is, “Take your positions at the bar, class. I think you’ve razzled Miss Ros’ nerves enough for one day.”

Some of the class looks down at the floor, at least pretending to be ashamed of their behavior, and Ros takes her position. Though tall for most women, she’s on the shorter end of a dancer, and her place is at the end as they go in height order. Her classmates still stare, but _let_ them stare, she decides. There’s nothing she can do about it, and trying to do anything about it will only make it worse. If there’s one thing high school showed her, it’s that ignoring gossip and wandering eyes is better than fighting against it.

The same isn’t true for nobility disputes, she finds, and it was her choice whether or not to get involved. And in the end, she’s okay with that.

  
  


 

“You know, Jon Snow, smiling isn’t a crime,” Ygritte says, and Jon isn’t up to deal with this today.

The thing is, before everything that happened, Jon was a pretty confident kid, or something close to it anyway. He’s second in line for Winterfell, good at school, good at sports, got along with his family and friends and never really argued with his parents. But that’s what people know him for, those pictures of him and Robb with his their arms around each other, ridiculous grins on their faces, that occasionally find themselves splashed across different social medias. So while Arya cuts her hair so she isn’t recognized, he changes his attitude.

With a shrug, he answers, “Just tired, is all,” and considering all he’s been through recently, redesigning himself wasn’t all that hard. Of course he still has Arya, which makes things infinitely better, Sam, Pyp, and Grenn are all nice enough to have around too, and he really likes this Ygritte girl. Though he does kind of wish she’d stop calling him “Jon Snow” and just stick with “Jon” like everyone else.

She’s got a smile on her face right now that’s less of a smile and more of smirk, and she asks, “What, did Mr. Thorne take too much out of you?”

The guy’s name is Alliser Thorne, and he teaches Intro to Military History because Jon’s decided to stick away from politics for now. “Mr. Thorne was born from the seventh layer of the Seven Hells,” Jon says, running his hand down his face. “He deemed my answer for why House Targaryen fell to be ‘smartass’ and started calling me ‘Lord Snow.’”

Like a total bitch, Ygritte laughs, the sound high and clear and Jon might like the sound of it a little too much. Right now they’re in the Commander’s Keep, which Arya discovered the entrance too on the second day and they’ve all been using since. Back when Castle Black was a real castle that faced only the north side, this had been the quarters for the Lord Commander, but it burned down in some freak accident involving a White Walker, supposedly, and no one’s ever bothered to rebuild it under the grounds that it’s “cursed.”

“Don’t you fancy lords in Westeros have some sort of style regulation?” Ygritte says because in Wildling Country, they don’t believe in kings or nobility, but the education here is better, so all the Free Folk come to a country they hate for college. “I don’t think that king of yours would approve of your curls.”

To stop himself from laughing at the irony, he says, “Ce - Princess Myrcella has hair curlier than mine.” No one knows where it comes from, either. Aunt Cersei had curls, but not like that, and Uncle Jaime’s hair is as straight as Sansa’s. Then again, the only person in the Stark or Tully family with curls is Aunt Lyanna so, whatever, genetics are weird.

He might never see Myrcella again.

To his relief, Ygritte just shrugs and lets the subject drop. “You should get a phone,” she tells him, and bites the side of her thumbnail. “Do you know how frustrating it is trying to figure out where you or Nan are? Castle Black is huge.”

She glares at him like it’s his fault and until he met her, he’d always thought no one was better at narrowing her eyes than Sansa. Though, Jon supposes they do look a bit alike, and Ygritte could be straight out of House Tully, all wild red hair and blue eyes. He thinks about Mom and Dad, and Ros and Theon, and wonders if the guys in his family just have a weakness for redheads or something because as much trouble as he has looking at Ygritte, he kind of likes looking at her too.

“We had some financial trouble right before coming here,” he lies, because that’s what he and Arya decided on. “Just ask Sam if you really can’t find us.”

The smirk jumps back on her face and she says, “I thought it was supposed to be you chasing me, not the other way around.”

And she’s really annoying, that too, and not in the good way, but it feels like the good way, which is bad. Maybe this is just a reaction to losing nearly everything he knows in a course of a night. “What?” he says. “Why would I need to chase you?”

Then she stands, gathering her books for her next class in her arms, and her untouched apple. “You know nothing, Jon Snow,” she answers, and walks out, leaving him alone in a half-burned down tower trying to figure out what she meant.

  
  


 

Sansa doesn’t scream, but she does make noise in her sleep, little gasps and murmured names and sometimes just a stream of _nononono_ until Robb reaches over and shakes her awake. And she knows she does all this, because it’s what she wakes up to, the sound of her own voice, and if she were loud, she’s pretty sure she’d wake herself. How she knows this?

Because Robb already does it.

“You’re okay, you’re safe right here with me,” she whispers into his shoulder on the night they decide will be their last in Riverrun, arms wrapped around him from behind and rubbing circles with her thumb on his collarbone. “It’s just a dream. Nothing can hurt you in your dreams.”

Even as she says, she feels like she’s lying. His heart is pounding under her hand, his breathing stuttering rather than even. “I’m sorry,” he says, but thankfully doesn’t try to move away. After dealing with a nightmare of her own only a couple hours earlier, she’s not ready to feel someone just pull away from her. “I tried.”

For his sake, she doesn’t ask what he means. While clearly not _sleeping_ exactly anymore, she’s not entirely sure he’s awake, either. Sometimes he just has a hard time coming back into awareness, which she understands on a personal level. Watching your almost boyfriend die right after asking you out on an official date apparently isn’t something you just get over. Neither is watching a massacre that includes your mother. Like that would surprise anyone.

Right now, though, she’s just too tired to care about much else than him. He’s put together with imaginary staples by this point and isn’t as good at pretending to be put together as he thinks he is. Since she’s even more transparent than  he is, she doesn’t bother pretending to be anything more than she is because he’s her older brother, and acting like an older brother is clearly doing something for him. She wishes that were true for his nightmares, but apparently their luck really is that bad (it’s not doing anything for hers, either).

Suddenly he shakes his head and says a little more clearly, “Sorry, Sansa,” which means he really is awake. He always is, eventually. It just takes a moment for him to fully get out of his dream. “You can get more sleep if you want. I’ll take watch again.”

She bites her lip and lets go of him finally, lets him adjust himself so they sit side by side. “Robb, you slept like two hours.”

Of course, this isn’t the first time he’s done this and if he ever gave her the chance, she’d probably have done it by now, too. And considering how healed up he is, she’s lost the “but you’re injured” excuse. “I’ll be fine,” he tells her, which is bullshit and five seconds later he rubs one hand across his eyes like he did when he was little as if his body’s working against him to disprove his point. “You can drive tomorrow, at least at the start of it. I’ll sleep in the car.”

“Robb, you’re not sleeping in the car.”

“I slept on the way here.”

“But -”

“Sansa, be quiet.” Offended, she goes to protest, but he literally puts a hand over her mouth and says in a lower tone, “Do you hear that?”

For a moment, she doesn’t hear anything. Then through the vents comes a boy’s voice: “Bullshit, the staff just won’t touch this place because Lord Theon’s got ownership of it.”

She’s pretty sure just then that her heart stopped, but it only gets worse when a second voice answers, “No, I swear, people in the area have heard screaming since the Red Wedding. And our lord’s in Winterfell, who’s going to know we’re here?”

Oh shit, she hadn’t thought of that. Riverrun is a valley, and the estate runs right along the Tumblestone and Red Fork, so no matter how removed they are, of course the sound fucking echos if someone’s walking by late enough into the night. Robb’s up in a second, zipping their duffles quiet as they can and she follows his example, practically flying into the bathroom in order to get their stuff out. “Three doors down,” he says quietly when she comes back, throwing her stuff inside one of the bags while he makes up the bed. “The closet.”

Even though he doesn’t specify, she gets what he’s saying - like Winterfell, this place has its scattered secret passageways left over from the days they were needed and of course Mom and Uncle Edmure told them every single one when they were younger. The one in the guest wing just leads downstairs, but it’s close enough to another one that leads to the end of the back property that Sansa thinks they can make it. And if it makes noise? Well, apparently people already think this place is haunted, so hopefully that’s what they’ll believe. People in the Riverlands are about as superstitious Northerns, after all.

One of the boys “Ooo’s,” and the other says, “Seriously, man, stop,” but the sound is muffled and thin now, which means they’re getting further away. Further away can only mean the stairs, and the route they’re taking leads directly into the guest wing.

The door hinges squeak much too loudly as Robb shuts it behind him, no matter how quietly he’s being, and it suddenly strikes her that his blood is still in the shower of the bedroom, which is a pretty big tip off for anyone who knows he’s actually alive deciding to look into this. The first kid goes, “What’s that?” and Sansa struggles with the doorknob, but they get in easy enough, shutting it with another loud noise behind them. Her brother’s to the closet first, sifting through holiday decorations and old toys before prying open the old wooden latch and motioning for her to get in.

It’s musty, but she holds down her need to cough as he slides in after, shutting first the closet door then the passageway one. Her elbow catches her stomach, but not hard enough to hurt. “Gods bless whoever decided on stairs instead of a latter,” she hears him say under his breath as they start to descent, and she’s not as good holding back her laugh. And it’s dark, but she can still make out the quick smile and the shine of his eyes.

They’re also close enough that she can feel him shaking. Closed doors aren’t a thing he’s good with anymore, and he just had to shut two.

When she forces herself out a third door, they’re in the kitchen that’s been a kitchen since this place was first built. “Don’t be such a girl, Ryger,” says the second boy as Sansa helps her brother out. “What do you think House Tully’s ghosts are going to do? Kill us?”

“Dude, haven’t you heard of vengeful spirits? It was a fucking _slaughter_.”

The second passageway is in the dining room next door, and they stay hidden behind kitchen furniture as much as they can, since they are technically in view of the stairs and that’s where the boys are. Then all the sudden the second kid says, “Changed my mind. We’re leaving.”

“Why?”

That’s when Sansa fucks up, accidentally bangs her hand on the wall next to the door instead of the knob she was aiming to grab because it’s dark and she can’t see all that well and unlike Winterfell, she hasn’t got Riverrun memorized. The two boys swing around, and next thing she knows, Robb’s got a hand on her back, forcing her to stay down and out of sight of the thin flashlight beams. “Because something real’s here,” the kid answers, and Sansa realizes dust must be disturbed everywhere.

“Y-you’re Robb Stark,” the first boy - Ryger - says. “You’re _dead_.”

“I am?” The confusion in his voice isn’t too obvious, but it isn’t hidden either. “I don’t _feel_ dead. Are you?”

Warily-sounding, the first boy says, “No. But the news said _you_ died at a wedding.”

There’s a distinct pause before Robb starts laughing. “Look, if you leave right now, I won’t tell my grandfather two idiot kids were trespassing when everyone gets back,” he says. “I mean, unless you’re a greenseer or something, because the wedding’s not until tomorrow night.”

Even though Sansa can’t see his face, she can see the boys’, and by now they both look pretty freaked out. Ryger tugs on his friend’s sleeve, clearly terrified, and says, “Ollie, let’s get out of here.”

“Yeah, Ollie,” Robb says, tone edged with something close to mocking. “Get out of here. And the two of you should go online and look up Westerosi laws, because trespassing is illegal, oh, you know, everywhere.”

The flashlight beams bounce as the two boys head down the stairs again, giving Sansa enough time to open the door to the dining room and slip through, Robb right behind her. “Shit, Ollie, where’d he go?” Ryger says, and she’s guessing it was too dark for them to make out the duffle bag thrown over her brother’s back.

Ollie answers, “Fuck if I know. I think that way. The door definitely moved.”

Footsteps start closing in, and the passageway is in a cabinet against the wall, which they have just enough time to slide into. Like the last one, it has stairs instead of a latter, but neither of them move once inside for fear of making too much noise. Unlike the one in the bedroom, this isn’t all that well hidden. “Do you think he was really a ghost?” Ryger says as the dining room door opens. “Ghosts wouldn’t need to open anything, right? Then again, he really did seem confused…”

“All the windows are shut,” Ollie says, “and it looks like there’s no other way out. Man, that is fucked up. He’s probably trapped in his last night here or something.”

“What’s with the screams then?”

“Do I look like a ghost whisper? Like I know,” he says. “Come on, let’s get out of here. The murders happened in the sept. We don’t need anyone else showing up.”

Ryger agrees immediately, and Sansa and Robb wait until they’re out of the room and the sound of their footsteps is gone before they start heading down. Knowing their luck, this will be online by tomorrow, but for now they’ve dodged disaster, and Sansa’s willing to count their blessings where she can.

**Author's Note:**

> Uh, yeah, terrible way to end it, I know! This is by far the most lighthearted chapter. Starting next chapter, it actually gets into the plot. This was almost more a study in characterization and familial relationships than anything else. 
> 
> All relationships are sort of background relationships, but Robb/Sansa gets that most attention since that was the prompt. And, because last night's episode ripped open an old wound, Jon/Ygritte are going to get some attention, too.


End file.
